


Fate's Hands

by beyondcanon



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need you." Brittany says, before pausing. "I want a divorce." Another pause. Santana's tongue feels heavy and dry in her mouth. She doesn't know what to answer to that nor how to process all the information. "And I need you to be my lawyer."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sipsofmymiind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sipsofmymiind/gifts).



> This story already has quite a few chapters on ff.net -- I am, however, in the process of rewriting/revising it with my beta. I will upload here the chapters as we go over them. Then, I will post on both sites new content, until the story comes to an end.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and sticking with me so far.
> 
> On with the story.

 

* * *

 

 

Santana isn't happy with her life, truth be told. Not because she became a Lima Loser, as she is far from that. She lives in a very nice house, decorated with heavy, wooden furniture and the latest technology on everything. The dinner table seats ten, even though it's barely used. It reminds her of her grandmother's house, the big family celebrations, memories of a home full of people that couldn't be further from her own. The families grew smaller as the generations passed, including her parents', and Santana was never one to be surrounded by friends who could fill that void.

She works as a lawyer. She's greedy, fierce and just persuasive enough. Santana is a woman cut for that kind of profession, and she is quite successful at it. She has her own law firm now, after years of struggling to get to the top. One thing that has always been clear about her is that she likes to be at the top of the pyramid. She has made a name for herself, which makes up for all the _frenemies_ and enemies she has to deal with these days. She has never really bothered with being disliked.

She is proud of the fact she hasn't become one of those fat mommas who were once pretty and end up eating their sadness away in every single piece of junk food they can get their hands on. Being attractive is part of being successful, and being desired is part of the strategy to get what you want. Her hair is still smooth, falling over her shoulders in a perfect, yet calculated manner. Her body is lean and firm with years of yoga and Pilates.

Even so, she still gets lost in thought at the end of the day, when everyone has gone home and she's by herself at the office, watching people's lives go on in the streets below. She has a big leather chair, comfortable and stone cold most of the time. There she sits for endless minutes as a soft sadness fills her, lingering for a lot longer than she would admit. She can't help being unsatisfied, being empty, feeling a sharp ache for something different.

She reminisces about a trip to Europe, years ago, when a woman read her palm. She had blue eyes, ginger hair, and many extra pounds. Santana let her examine her hand just to see what the woman could come up with. It should've been fun, right? It ended up being scary. The woman looked her in the eyes and told her she would have only one great love in life. Santana could feel her heart skip a beat in that hot summer day, and yearned to run away.

She knows it's true. She has fallen in love just once in her entire life. She is aware she has already had her chance and didn't realize it when the time was right. It saddens her, the nostalgia of the memories and the certainty of a life of solitude. She always feels alone. There have been others after that, of course. But none of them could strip her of the feeling that she's out there by herself. And none managed to escape either the comparison to or the negation of that epic love.

It surfaces when she's replying to e-mails, reading over lawsuits, planning case strategies. Her dedication is, partly, an effort to forget. If one is always busy and if the list of things to do never ends there isn't much space left to revisit those feelings. In a courtroom, in a meeting or at a dinner party there isn't much space to analyze one's own life. She's good at faking it. It's all a matter of survival, isn't it? It is a hard reality, and at the end of the day she is nothing but alone.

* * *

The day starts like any other. Santana wakes up, brushes her teeth, puts on some clothes and goes to her yoga class. It's been a little over ten years since she first started, and she has gotten to the point of impressive flexibility. She likes to push herself harder than anyone asks her to, and this applies to yoga as well. It's refreshing, to overcome her boundaries with something that requires a purely physical effort. It's not about thinking, winning a case, or proving herself to other people; it's about showing herself she can always go further and be better.

When she gets home, breakfast is already set for her. After a quick shower, she sits at the kitchen table to face her sleepy husband. He mumbles something that could mean good morning and kisses the top of her head as he takes the recently brewed coffee and pours her some. He's five years older than her and also works at the firm, where they first met eight years ago. He's tall, with broad shoulders and the same infinite ambition as her. She likes his hazel eyes and the way he is always perfectly unshaven. She likes that he is successful and desired. They fit well together, to the public's eyes and to their own.

He is affectionate, unlike her. His hand brushes her shoulder as he circles the table to sit across from her. He's only wearing his dark navy pajama pants. They eat together in comfortable silence, the sound of the newspaper he's reading the only disturbance. She is lost in thought, remembering her schedule for the day and preparing herself for it.

A woman knows when she has pleased a man. They are so easy to read, working within such determined patterns and ideas that it takes no time to understand one to the point of predictability. Santana is good at that. She knew he wanted her the moment they met. They played their part in the usual dance of relationships, where steps are carefully planned and perfectly executed. Within six months they were in a serious relationship. Within three years, they were married. In a few weeks they would celebrate their fifth year of marriage. She looks at him for a moment and the thought of that becomes unbearable.

He is not the love of her life. She gets up. When she walks into her closet she stares at herself in the mirror. She honestly can't tell how she got there. Sighing, she puts on her power suit and make up. Her husband catches up to her a few minutes later, dressed in a black suit, and they leave the house. He talks about their shares in the stock market and how high the interest is. She nods here and there and he mentions a trip to Punta Del Este he wants them to take. She's focused on the road and says they'll see.

It's good that he is so careful with their finances. In five years they have only gotten wealthier together. They sit and discuss their budget, their investments, and how international politics and the country's economy could affect their present and future choices. It works as a moment of bonding and it assures her that they are equals, that he is not trying to dominate their relationship. Santana could never accept being somehow inferior. It took her enough time to stop demanding to be on top the entire time. Her need for dominance and assertiveness has been directed to her profession, for the sake of her marriage.

It is also good that he loves her more than she loves him. It means he won't leave and humiliate her with a divorce or an affair. It means he is more dependent of her than the other way around. He talks on the phone and she takes that opportunity to examine him closely. How relaxed and satisfied he is with their routine and their life. He realizes it and squeezes her hand before focusing back on his conversation. Sometimes she feels like she is leading someone else's life.

* * *

It started off as a normal day, but all normalcy crumbles down when her last appointment of the morning comes in. She had spent her day in two meetings, so far: the first with the office's team of lawyers and the second with both parties of a case. She feels a bit worn out, but nothing that will kill her. All she needs to do before lunch is see one more possible client.

Santana looks up from her laptop screen and all of a sudden her heart stops. Brittany is at her door, looking at her with uncertainty. This is absolutely overwhelming and unexpected and heartbreaking and she feels she can't breathe. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Santana just looks back and blinks – it's the first time in years she's left speechless.

Brittany looks amazing. She aged so well. Her posture remains elegant; her body remains as flawless as it was in high school; her hands, delicate; and her skin, smooth. When she walks to the black leather chair in front of Santana and sits, she still moves graciously. Santana wonders if she still dances.

"Hello, Santana." She looks down for a moment, as if looking for what to say. She has never been very good with words. Some things never change, Santana says to herself. Her manicured nails trace a random pattern on the wooden desk between them.

Santana feels like stretching out a hand and cupping the other woman's face. Her fingers would touch her jaw and her thumbs would feel the thinner skin at the corners of her eyes. Maybe she would feel the years weighing down on Brittany instead of picturing her just as she used to be. How long has it been? "Brittany. It's good to see you." She blurts out accidentally. It wasn't her intention to admit it right away. She looks down, afraid Brittany will see the turmoil in her eyes. If some things never change, she might still read Santana as easily as she performs her dance moves.

There's a long, heavy silence. "I need you." Brittany says, before pausing again. "I want a divorce." Another pause. Santana's tongue feels heavy and dry in her mouth. She doesn't know what to answer to that or how to process the information. "And I need you to be my lawyer." Brittany had moved on, married someone else, lived a whole life she wasn't a part of in the slightest.

Santana knows she has done the same. "I don't know." She feels cheated, somehow. She doesn't know whether or not she craves the closeness, however unstable, that this implies. "I'm a corporate lawyer, it's not my area." It's awkward. She always knew what to say to Brittany. Now all she feels are the heavy silence and their past suffocating them both.

"I believe in you, Santana." Brittany answers, and Santana breaks again. This must have been purposefully layered, and it's probably the wisest answer possible. It brings back high school, it brings back prom, and it brings back all that they could have been. It's too much. She looks away, even if she hasn't realized her gaze had gone back to the other woman's eyes. She doesn't want to remember.

She opens her mouth a few times, as if starting a sentence, but she can't. She is exhausted already. How much time have they been there, in this parallel universe in which they trust each other, talk to each other and acknowledge each other? She is not ready. She is still not ready, she is not ready again, she is just not ready. "Brittany..." It is all she can say. She knows her mind is going around in circles. This conversation is not going anywhere, for her mind feels completely blurred. How can she make a rational, professional decision on whether to take the case or not if she can barely form a coherent sentence in this conversation?

"He cheated on me."

It is enough. How could someone who has Brittany by their side, who can see her dance and hear her sing, who sleeps in the same bed as her, who holds her hand while walking down the street, and who has every single heterosexual privilege throw that away? What for? Brittany is not someone you just stop loving. She is not the type of woman to be scorned and publicly humiliated. She is not one to be forgotten or left behind.

Santana dislikes him already. "Excuse me?" Her brow furrows, and she is full of hate. It just got personal. "Who is this man? Who does he work for? What does he do? How long have you been together? How did you find out?" Santana's hands are trembling with rage, because she can see in Brittany's eyes the hurt, the embarrassment and the humiliation and that is unacceptable. She opens her laptop, staring intensely at the other woman. Brittany won her over, as usual. Santana will now be an unstoppable force until her goal as reached.

* * *

Brittany was unsure about going to Santana for help. They had so much baggage, so much still unresolved between them. But she had this... situation in her life, and she needed someone who would fight for her and win. This person had always been Santana, who was now a lawyer. So, she needed Santana. Simple.

When she stands at her door, so many years later, and takes the few seconds while Santana stares at the laptop screen to examine the brunette, things stop being simple. She looks exactly the same, and for a moment it feels like time has stopped. A closer look shows a better posture and skin that's only a little bit thinner and worn out. Santana is still beautiful. "Hello, Santana." Brittany's heart is pounding furiously. She looks down, half ashamed of being there, half unsure of what to say. After all was said and done, what was left between them?

"Brittany. It's good to see you." Santana looks shocked, and that is probably the only reason why she would let that last sentence escape her mouth. For a second, Brittany wishes Santana had said Britt instead of Brittany, but she'll settle for what she can get. She decides she should sit down and start the conversation – Santana doesn't seem to be much in condition to, anyway.

"I need you." It's an honest declaration. She does need her again. She doesn't know what to think of that yet. She realizes she has been thinking, not talking, and that the room is so silent she can hear Santana's breathing. "I want a divorce." It pains her to say it because it means she was with somebody else. She's hesitant to admit life went on without Santana, without her sweet lady kisses and her fierce protectiveness and that rare smile of happiness and the smell of her shampoo. "And I need you to be my lawyer." No other lawyer would understand her.

"I don't know" is the answer she gets. Better than a no, she supposes. But still not quite enough. "I'm a corporate lawyer, it's not my area." Brittany does not understand. Santana should know all the laws – isn't that what being a lawyer implies? What is a corporate lawyer, anyway? Santana looks upset and Brittany can instinctively sense the tension between them, see the brunette stiffening her posture and measuring the silences between every sentence.

"I believe in you, Santana." Brittany says it so softly it's almost a whisper. She's trying not to focus on the past, with Santana or with her husband, but she somehow knows this is what Santana needs to hear. She's referring to all of their past in one sentence, all of their struggles. She's alluding to her own adoration of Santana. There's a long silence.

"Brittany..." It's a plea. For what, she cannot possibly know. But she sees Santana's brow furrow, her shoulders slump only a bit, the tone of her voice, and Brittany knows Santana is pleading.

Deep down, she would rather not tell Santana about the whole thing. But she knows she has to if she wants to convince Santana. "He cheated on me," she says, without adding further explanation. Pouring her heart out without even knowing if Santana will accept her is not something she should do. Not at this state of things. There is not much to add to that information, either. She was cheated on, and that was the end of the relationship and the beginning of something she cannot wrap her mind around just yet.

"Excuse me?" Santana's brow furrows in a different way than before and the change in her tone of voice is enough to indicate anger. "Who is this man? Who does he work for? What does he do? How long have you been together? How did you find out?" Brittany feels overwhelmed with those questions and, at the same time, absolutely pleased with the reaction. She holds her breath until Santana is done interrogating her, afraid to break the moment and have it slip through her fingers.

Santana cares. Something in Brittany's heart clicks. Santana is still protective of her. "John Cox. Eight years of marriage." She swallows. Eight years had passed by so fast. She looks for Santana's reaction, and for a moment there is nothing but silence again. She decides she must keep talking, for everyone's sake. "We own a dance studio together. I found out because of some messages she left for him at the studio. He denies it. I told him it was over and asked him to move out. No one knows."

* * *

Brittany used to think of her husband as a good man. They had fun together, he was caring and attentive and their studio didn't make them rich, but it was more than enough to make a living. However, upon listening to those messages, he became a stranger. Just like that. She remembers it vividly, happening unexpectedly after her classes that day. The sun had just begun to set and everything looked more poetic. She remembers the sound of the answering machine, the familiar beep followed by a woman's voice. The heartbreak, the loss, the confusion. The door being opened, the sound of his steps, his unshaven face.

He was a handsome man. Perfectly in shape, tall, with soft, dark hair that he liked to keep at medium length, even if he was getting a bit old for that. She loved to intertwine her fingers in his raven locks as they kissed. He used to be a dancer like her, and they met because of a performance in Italy. They were young then, and Europe was lovely. If she wasn't so slow to learn languages she would have definitely stayed there. But then, divorces ought to be much more complicated in Europe. It is for the best that she ended up in New York, a place she can understand.

She remembers his surprised look and her own calm at the confrontation. It was unacceptable for her to be mistreated or cheated on, and he had crossed that one sacred line – this was a mistake she would not forgive. She ended it right then, right there, holding back the tears. He moved out of the apartment that same night, still determined to win her back.

What he didn't seem to notice was that there was no going back. She didn't sleep that night, spending her time pacing around the apartment instead. It was hard making plans without someone by your side. It struck her then, at 2 A.M. Santana. Someone who understood her, who used to make plans with her, who maybe, just maybe, would still be willing to fight for her. Santana was good at fighting.

A soft smile ghosts her lips at the thought. Santana was a lawyer, too. Brittany opens her laptop and begins to research about Santana. The results are impressive. She is mentioned in two newspapers as part of the team of lawyers handling the judicial clashes between two big companies. Her office is big, it seems. Brittany spends a few moments staring at a photo of her. This is it. Once again, she needs Santana. And, once again, Santana is everything she needs. She sighs.

* * *

"What do you want?" Santana has a pen in hand, playing with it as she calms down and tries to think of something. She runs her mind through a list of lawyers she knows who could help her with this case, hopefully refraining themselves from asking too many questions. It would be hard to explain why she accepted it, why Brittany, why now.

Santana's fierceness is like honey to flies. And at that moment she embodies all the determination and power in the world. Brittany feels inevitably attracted to it. "I don't know," she says softly, because she hasn't stopped to think about it. Does she want the dance studio? The apartment? The dog? His money? Or does she just want a divorce?

If she doesn't even know what she wants, why has she come to Santana? She feels confused again and sighs. "Okay. Let's put it this way: how do you want your life to be from now on? Do you want to sell everything and start fresh? Do you want him to go away and everything to remain the same?" Santana's trying to be impersonal and rational, and it hurts. "Or do you want to have everything you built together and strip him of every single penny he owns?" She can feel her mouth watering at the thought. It is something to direct her efforts to, focus her mind on, a concrete and ambitious goal to achieve.

Brittany listens carefully but still has no answer. She feels lost. She doesn't know what she is doing, what she wants, where to go. She doesn't even know how to react to Santana. What do divorced people do, anyway? Her parents never got a divorce. She pauses her own line of thought for a moment. She has yet to tell her parents. Soon the world would know. Hopefully no one would think it was her fault. She looks at Santana. "I don't know." It is only then she notices the ring on Santana's finger. The revelation that she is married, too, sinks in unpleasantly.

Santana looks at Brittany and her heart aches from the look on the other woman's face. She sighs. "It's okay." She feels like giving Brittany a hug, but that is not a possibility. "We'll figure it out. We have a few days while I set up the case." To be more accurate, while she figures out what she needs to do and how she can make the best of the situation. There is no such thing as failure for Santana Lopez.


	2. Chapter 2

This is the third dinner Santana pays for as she sets up a strategy to handle Brittany's case. The restaurant is Mediterranean with a touch of Greek decor. Santana likes it. The food is amazing too, every single ingredient incredibly fresh and rich, as it should be. Her Mascarpone Cream with cherries and sweet Samos wine roll down her tongue pleasantly and she almost purrs at the taste. She doesn't have dessert too often but she makes it worth her while when she does.

"I also brought you this." Santana's friend Samantha, who is more acquainted with the proper legislation, hands her a book. "It's a good start. I made a few annotations on the margins and highlighted a few things. It should be of some help." She is also wise enough not to delve into the subject too much. She knows enough: old friend, doing a favor, needs guidance. Santana appreciates the gesture and takes the book in her hands. Going through the pages, the number of annotations and highlights shows Samantha's dedication.

Santana only mingles with the best. Samantha is her age, redheaded, and ready to take advantage of any rich, separated couple. "Thank you." Samantha had sacrificed her night solely to inform and guide Santana through the process. Santana feels much more prepared now. "You took your time just to help me. I owe you one." She hates feeling indebted, but a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do. Brittany invades her thoughts and she wonders why they are doing this.

It's been too long since they had a connection. She has tried not to think about the past. It was over a decade ago. Why, then, does she feel so taken aback and confused? The revelation that Brittany's life went on without her tastes sour in her mouth. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It couldn't be further away from any projection she might have made and expectations she had allowed herself to have.

She stops her own train of thought and looks back at the book. It's better to focus on the situation at hand, get the most and the best for Brittany, and let life follow its course again. Samantha is talking on the phone, looking at her apologetically. She gestures for her friend to keep talking, there's no problem. She finishes her dessert, trying to erase a certain blonde from her mind. She feels like calling her, but that would be crossing a dangerous line.

* * *

Santana walks around the dance studio, examining every detail closely. Her heels echo soundly on the floor. She runs her fingers over the walls, stares at herself in the mirror, and even feels comfortable enough to press play on the stereo. A soft electro tango beat begins to play. She's not a big connoisseur, but she can appreciate the beauty of it.

"Bajo Fondo," Brittany says, her body reacting to the beat without her noticing, mimicking a few basic steps as she walks. She has just finished a class, so she is wearing her dance clothes, small drops of sweat dripping from her body, running down her arms, her neck, her back. "It's an Argentinian group. They're amazing," she adds, staring into Santana's eyes. "My last class reacts much better to this than to classic tango." It is a useless piece of information for Santana, but she takes it anyway.

It's late at night. Brittany's last class had ended, and so had Santana's last meeting. The latter had expressed a wish to see the studio and Brittany had conceded, just to listen to the message in the answering machine and meet somewhere outside the office. Just that. Santana avoids the tension by leaving the room and heading to the reception. Tango stills plays in the background as Brittany follows. "Has he shown up?" She asks in a professional tone.

"Here? Yes." The taller woman pauses, picking up a few sheets of paper. "When I'm not around, to teach a few classes. The business is running as usual." Santana takes this chance to examine her client in the discreet light. She is as beautiful as a Renaissance painting. "He has been calling me." Something inside Santana twists and she wishes Brittany was looking at her, so that she could read her.

"Have you been in touch with him somehow?" She asks, keeping her tone serious. That could significantly alter the strategy she was putting together.

"No. I don't want to." Brittany turns to the answering machine, takes out the small tape, and hands it to Santana. "Just in case," Brittany says. All the effort in the world is put into them not touching. They haven't talked yet, not for real. Every conversation is limited to the case and its perspectives. She does not ask Brittany how she feels, she does not comfort Brittany with a hug, she does not reminisce about their past lives, she does not mention their drifting apart.

Santana puts it in her purse. "Good. Have you made your decision yet?" They have all the tools, but it is not the lawyer's role to decide what to do with them. "About what you want to demand?" A touchy subject, but it has to be approached sooner or later. She looks down. She has listened to the messages. There are two of them, making it very clear what was going on between the caller and Brittany's soon to be ex-husband.

She plays with her own wedding ring. What would she do if she were cheated on? She doesn't have the answer. Her blood boils with the mere thought. John Cox swore loyalty and fidelity on his wedding day and he was going to suffer the consequences of breaking such promises. "I want everything we manage to get." Brittany's voice startles her and their eyes meet. "And I want him out of my life." For the first time since she entered Santana's office the other day, Brittany sounds determined. Santana's smile to that is predatory.

* * *

It is a sunny day. Brittany loves sunny days. She looks up and smiles, pleased with the blue sky and the cozy warmth of sunrays on her skin. She's in a yellow cotton dress that hugs her waist and flows freely to her knees and brown sandals. There are no classes to teach this afternoon, for which she is glad. She can feed the ducks at the park, take a walk, have some ice cream or do anything else.

She is meeting Santana for coffee. Santana said she had a meeting canceled and asked Brittany if she wanted to grab a coffee or something. The invitation was promptly accepted. It felt nice just seeing Santana again, truth be told. Not to fill the space left by John, but just because. She had forgotten how easy it was to be around her, to have dinner with her and let her talk about this or that new restaurant in Soho and how Brittany had to go there.

"Hello," Brittany says softly, taking a seat across from Santana and taking her sunglasses off. Santana is wearing her work clothes, as always, making Brittany curious about what her informal wardrobe is like now. The sun makes Santana's raven hair shine and her skin seem even smoother, surprising Brittany once again with how aesthetically beautiful the she is.

"Hi," Santana answers, putting her newspaper down and folding it neatly. "You got here so fast." Santana likes her coffee like her family taught her: strong and very, very hot. She hates Starbucks, with their weak, barely warm coffee. Santana's _abuela_ used to say that drinking cold coffee is like kissing a soul – something Santana never forgot.

"It's my afternoon off and I was around. You know, feeding ducks in a pond at the park." Brittany says, opening the menu distractedly.

Santana laughs soundly, throwing her head back and closing her eyes. The sound is just delicious, and so is the image of her in such a laid back moment. Brittany knows Santana is not one to lower her guard and the fact that she allows herself to in front of Brittany does not go unnoticed. "Ducks? Some things never change, do they?"

Brittany smiles. "No, some things never change."

* * *

Santana sits on a bench as she watches Brittany teach contemporary music to teenagers. They seem to be a fun group, laughing together. Some of them are boyfriend and girlfriend – it is clear by how some boys are always attached to certain girls' hips. Some of them are talented, others are just having a blast. Brittany is smiling, correcting missteps and walking around. Every once in a while, she takes one of her male students – there aren't many – to demonstrate a step or two.

It is obvious that all of them have at least a slight crush on her. After dancing with a really shy boy who seems to not have decided yet whether he likes to dance with her or if he just wants Earth to swallow him whole, Santana's and Brittany's eyes meet. There's a shared understanding between the two women. Brittany winks at her, and she meant to do it playfully, but she cannot avoid blushing shortly after, as she turns her back to Santana and goes back to watching her students.

Santana just continues to observe her until the class is over. She is glad she got there earlier than expected, if only to see Brittany in her own element. The atmosphere of lawyers, the end of the relationship, it all seemed to be imprinting a soft yet permanent sadness on Brittany lately. Santana worries about her. In a few minutes the kids leave the studio, babbling incessantly about the latest single from the latest famous band.

"I'm going to change," Brittany says, waiting until Santana nods before going to the locker room. They are going to the movies, to watch the latest animated film. Brittany loves animations and she could use the distraction to brighten her mood. That also means they can avoid talking for a few hours. Sometimes it is not easy to dance around subjects such as Santana's marriage, their past together, and what are they becoming.

Santana is walking around, lost in thought, when the door opens. A tall man enters, looking around. He is well built, with broad shoulders and black hair. "Can I help you?" Santana asks, because she does not like how he walks around like he owns the place.

"I'm looking for Brittany." His voice sounds familiar, but she can't quite put her finger on it. "Britt?" He calls for her, louder than before. Santana is displeased and disgusted at how he takes ownership of that nickname. It doesn't sound right, coming from him.

Brittany enters the room again and stops at the sight of him. What was John Cox doing there? "John?" Santana's face goes from her to John to her again to John again, as she apparently puts a face to the name. Her expression would be funny if Brittany wasn't panicking. Seeing her (ex?) husband reminds her of his affair, of the hurt and disappointment.

"Brittany, talk to me. First you go over a week without exchanging a word, you don't take my calls or answer my emails, and the next thing I know some lawyer calls me to set up a meeting?" He is unshaven, torn and suffering. Brittany does not want to see his pain, she does not want his particular scent to invade her nostrils, and she wishes he wasn't taking those steps in her direction. Tears threaten to fall from her eyes and she looks away. "Give me one more chance, Britt. We can save this marriage."

Santana snaps when she realizes Brittany may cry at any moment. She acts at the right moment, her right arm encircling Brittany's waist and making her stand behind her as her left hand touches Cox's chest and stops him from getting any nearer to her Brittany. "Hold it there, champ. Brittany has made it very clear that she has no wish to engage in any type of conversation with you and that she considers your marriage to be over already. You will be speaking to her through your lawyer, and this is not a negotiation."

Brittany exhales in relief, clinging to Santana's arm – Brittany has always seen her as bigger than life. She is relieved she does not have to handle this alone, because she feels like running away and not facing anything. This is too big and too serious for her, and she in unprepared. She is trying to adapt, but most of the time she just feels out of place.

"And who are you?" John looks annoyed and surprised at the same time, looking at the hand on his chest and back to Santana as if not believing what is going on.

"I'm Santana Lopez, her best friend and her lawyer. If I were you, I'd leave right away." She gives him her glare, the one that makes it very clear she is a limitless bitch who hides razorblades in her hair. She tightens her grip on Brittany, to make sure she is still there and still safely tucked behind her. "You wouldn't want a restraining order, would you?"

He answers no more and leaves. Santana can feel the hatred towards that man and all that he means. The adrenaline is pumping so fast in her veins that she feels she can run an entire marathon and a triathlon and climb Mount Everest before dinner. Only then does it strike her she is touching Brittany for the first time in over a decade, and she's touching her way beyond a casual, accidental brush. She is holding Brittany close, feeling Brittany's breasts touch her back, Brittany's uneven breathing down her neck, Brittany's hands holding her arm, Brittany's hair tingling her skin. Brittany is everywhere.

"Thank you," Brittany whispers. "Thank you."

Santana turns to look at Brittany and sees her fighting back tears. It breaks her; her heart is thumping so loudly in her ribcage and she feels useless for letting Brittany cry. She acts on instinct again and pulls Brittany in for a long, tight hug. Brittany deserved to be happy, more than anyone. This was not fair.

Brittany smells like vanilla and something else she cannot decipher and she takes it all in. Santana closes her eyes, one arm wrapped tightly around the other woman as her free hand soothes blonde hair. Brittany begins to cry, her face buried in the crook of Santana's neck. "It's going to be okay. I promise." Santana always keeps her word.

* * *

"Good evening." Santana says, dropping her purse on the couch as she enters the apartment. She can smell dinner and her stomach rumbles in anticipation. It's 9pm and the last thing she ate was lunch, eight hours earlier. Having a husband who thoroughly enjoys cooking had done nothing but wonders to her healthy diet. "Alexander?"

He is in the kitchen with his headphones on. It's a tad adorable how his body moves to the beat without him even realizing it. "Hey," he answers, taking his headphones off and placing his iPod on the kitchen counter. As usual, she takes it and puts it in the living room, away from knifes, food, and possible damage. "Missed you at lunch today," he adds, back turned to her.

She senses something is wrong. He didn't ask about her day or begin saying something about himself, or something he saw on the news, or some funny story he heard today. Alexander is quite talkative, unlike Santana, who'd rather keep things to herself until she had the opportunity to process everything in her mind. She plans her actions and thinks before speaking; he is intuitive and impulsive. They're very different as lawyers.

"Yeah, I told that client that I'd have lunch with her. You know, the one that wants a divorce from her cheating husband. I completely forgot I'd agreed to go to that new restaurant you wanted to try." She pauses, taking off her jacket and throwing it on the couch as well. She waits a moment, eyebrow raised. "I apologized for that already."

He is setting the table for two. "Why did you take that case again?" He asks, ignoring her explanation. She sighs. The explanation had already been given two weeks ago – why was he bringing it up again? His face is like stone, unreadable, but she senses the aggression in the manner he sets the glasses on the table.

"I told you already," she says, trying to keep her temper. "She's an old friend who came to me for help." The blatant lie stings horribly. "She's going through a hard time and I thought I should help, even if we lost touch for a long time. She needs me." It's all he needs to know. It's all everyone needs to know, actually. Her past is no one's business. It is buried and forgotten, and she got over it all. She opens a bottle of wine and pours them both some.

Alexander serves dinner. He made _paella valenciana_. He gestures for her to sit, so she does. "You know you get paid a lot better as a corporate lawyer. Not to mention the time you spend studying for this single case that has nothing to do with your experience for the last decade. You're wasting time, money, and energy with this." He begins to drink his wine. It takes a lot for her to let him finish. Her jaw clenches and she straightens her back.

She is on a hunt for a bigger role on bigger cases, and he knows more than anyone where to push to get a reaction out of her. "This discussion ends here, Alexander. I am not your property. You are my husband, not my father, and I won't accept this commanding attitude regarding how I spend my time, which cases I take, and how much money I make." She frowns, taking in the implications of what he just said. What was he insinuating about the money? That she wasn't bringing home her share of the bread? That he should have a say in every decision she makes? She pours herself more wine. "Do not even try to get all self righteous with me. You dont have a say in all my decisions, and being together for almost a decade does not imply we have become the same person."

"You have lunch or dinner with her several times a week, not to mention the unnecessary amount of meetings. No billable hours, not one – I checked. You're not charging her a dime. You have other clients, more important cases, other priorities. You're not being professional, Santana." He pours himself wine as well, the food forgotten on both their plates. "I never thought I'd say this to you. You should be focusing on the office's necessities right now, not on some woman who just showed up again in your life because it was cheaper or more convenient. If she can't deal with her husband by herself, that's too bad for her, and none of your concern."

She is so angry and hurt at the accusation – he has gone too far, too fast. He, of all people, should be aware of that.

"You don't speak of her like that, ever again." She pauses, trying to wrap her mind around his arguments and form a coherent line of thought. "Do you understand that, Alexander, or do you need me to spell it out for you? This conversation is fucking over. You crossed every single line there was to cross and disrespected me in more ways than one. Who the fuck do you think you are?" He opens his mouth to speak, but she raises a hand to stop him from answering. "Do not interrupt me, Alexander. I listened to all your bullshit, didn't I?" Santana gives him a dangerous look. "Don't even dare question my professionalism again or my professional choices if you want this relationship to continue." Her voice is even and controlled as she speaks, but her hands are trembling in rage as she gets up. "Congratulations. _Has arruinado lo que podría ser una noche agradable para nosotros y conseguiste el premio de Hijo de Puta del Año._ _¿_ _Contento?_ " She grabs her purse on the couch. "I can't even fucking look at you right now." She leaves the apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

Santana is the sole captain of her own life, and she fights for that control and independence with all she has. She has built the perfect life, filled with everything she once envisioned. She has a promising and successful career, a gorgeous body, a great apartment in NYC, and a husband with the same priorities as her. She is in her thirties and she already has it all.

Except things are falling out of control and the perfection she has carefully built is falling out of her grasp. In the span of two weeks, she had managed to fight with her husband, leave the house, and have Brittany back in her life full force. She hides her face in her hands for a moment before interrupting the gesture – she still smells like Brittany, even if two days have passed by and she has changed clothes and taken more than enough showers for the scent to disappear.

She can't go home. She can't go back to sleeping in the same bed as Alexander, because it would mean giving in and accepting his side of the argument. And in that matter, he was completely wrong and out of place and he had to recognize that. He had overstepped serious boundaries and he had to apologize if he valued their relationship at all. She is profoundly hurt by his words and his actions. He had been her partner for so long – his words stung deep.

And then there is Brittany. Santana had no idea what to make of it or how to explain why she had handled things the way she had. Everything with Brittany had always felt so instinctive. She could not deny their connection was still there, strong, and that once upon a time Brittany had meant the world to her. It was nothing but fair to offer a hand in a moment of need. Brittany needed someone at that moment, to deal with the practical and the emotional consequences of a divorce. This someone happened to be Santana.

Santana comes to the conclusion that she needs distance. Go to a hotel for a few days – she is tired of sleeping at the office – limit her encounters with Brittany to a minimum. She holds both Alexander and Brittany very dearly, but they are doing more harm than good. Alexander was being too jealous, too harsh, too cynical. Brittany was too sweet, too vulnerable, too overwhelming. She was bringing back a part of Santana long suppressed and long forgotten. Santana has no wish to relive that time or that pain.

* * *

Brittany is confused. Not only had her life taken an unexpected and abrupt turn, but Santana had decided, during the last few days, to change her behavior completely. From seeing each other nearly everyday they had gone to seeing each other twice a week if Brittany was lucky, without an explanation of any kind. Brittany misses her; she misses talking to her and slowly rebuilding the easiness they once had.

She is not stupid, though, and has noticed that this behavior can be traced to their encounter with John. She bites her lip at the thought. Once more, she's having dinner by herself. She feels like calling Santana and asking her to come over, but their houses were somehow off limits and she would probably just answer that she was busy or whatnot. She doesn't feel like calling anyone else, so she settles for eating pasta on her own.

She runs that moment over and over again in her head. John enters, looking broken and confused. Santana steps in and makes him go away. They touch for the first time. It felt wonderful and Brittany still tingles at the memory. Santana does care, to the point of being protective and breaking formality. Not the stiff, formal interaction they had up to then – they had a long, genuine hug, where Brittany was able to cry and hide her face in Santana's neck and be soothed by her. Of all things, that may be what Brittany misses the most: the liberty and opportunity to touch Santana freely, whenever she wishes and wherever she wishes.

Days have passed since, and all Brittany wants is things to go back. She wonders for a moment what Santana's reaction means. Maybe Santana would give up the case, or maybe Brittany had lost the chance to reconnect. The uncertainty of it scares her. She tries to think but doesn't know what to do. She wonders if Santana would meet her halfway. She had said they were best friends. It was hard to know if it was true or if Santana was just saying what she knew would have the most impact. Was it just a figure of speech or does it hold any meaning? Brittany suddenly feels alone.

* * *

Santana walks into her office with a relaxed look on her face, because it has been three days since she went back to sleeping on a real bed. A hotel bed was so much better than her office couch. She puts her suitcase on her desk right before hearing the door open and close behind her. "Santana," a familiar voice calls.

"Alexander." She turns around. He's dressed in a dark blue suit, as elegant and handsome as always. He is clean-shaven and the smell of his cologne fills the room. It's a very masculine scent, like wood and rain and oaks. It has been years since he first started wearing it.

"We need to talk." He looks grave and serious. They stare at each other for a long moment.

"Yes, we do," she says, waiting for what he might say. She will not make this any easier. Her shoulders are tense and her jaw is slightly clenched. She fears, for a moment, where this conversation might go. She cannot give in, but she also does not want to break.

"We cannot go on like this anymore. You haven't slept in our bed for over a week, we haven't talked outside the office and we are still pretending to the world that everything is okay." He pauses, as if examining her features, but doesn't succeed because her face is stone-like. Santana is not one to betray this kind of vulnerability so easily. "Everything is not okay."

"I know."

"I miss you." He gives in, and that is more than she would have expected. "I miss you, talking to you and cooking for you." There is a certain sincerity in him that touches her. He takes a few steps forward.

"You hurt me, Alexander. I have done nothing but support all your decisions and I never expected you to say what you said. It was cruel and inappropriate." She pauses and looks at him straight in the eye. "When you spent two months getting home at late hours because you were closing a deal with two of the biggest telephone companies in the world, I understood. When you decided to take three months to dedicate yourself exclusively to that summer course in Harvard, I paid for all our bills." She frowns slightly, holding back her tongue from anything hurtful she might want to say. Hurting Alexander would be of no help.

"I recognize that. I should have known when to stop when I was making my point." This was probably the best she would get regarding an apology. Santana and Alexander never apologized. "This case has an emotional meaning to you."

"You are my partner in life; not my competition, my father, or my boss. My partner. I thought we were on the same page." She pauses and looks away. "Maybe I was wrong." She doesn't say she misses him too.

"I won't let one case ruin all that we've built together, Santana. Come home." He is so close now Santana can feel the body heat emanating from him. He touches her face. "Let's get past this argument. I recognize I was too harsh on your decisions." She looks at him. "I respect you, Santana, and I admire you. That's why I wanted to share my life with you in the first place."

Alexander has said all the right things. Santana nods. He kisses her.

* * *

Brittany isn't there. This time, it is just John and Santana staring at each other and having an underlying dispute over Brittany. Santana is as foreign to him as the other way around, representing Brittany's past life and a side of her John could not have known. John represents Brittany's current life, a permanent reminder to Santana that they had grown apart for so long. She does not like him and his dark hair and broad shoulders and impeccable form.

She also dislikes his stubbornness and the arrogance that having Brittany all for himself has imprinted on him. He doesn't want to let her go, even though she had manifested her repulse for him more than once. Brittany does not belong to him anymore, and Santana was determined to make him see that.

None of these considerations are verbally expressed.

"Ms. Lopez, I cannot accept all of the conditions." He is wearing a suit, an ugly suit that does not flatter him in the least. "I have no wish whatsoever to sell my share of the studio." He pushes the papers across the table from him with the tips of his fingers.

Santana plays with her expensive pen between her fingers. It feels cold. "Mr. Cox, my client has made it very clear that she does not want to see you again, and I don't see how the both of you can run a business in these conditions." She gives him a hard look, wondering which part he hadn't understood. This isn't going anywhere.

"See, we've been together for a decade. She can't ignore me forever." He looks right back at her. He is good competition and he is not afraid of her, like most people. She hates him. She actively hates him. "She'll come around."

Her jaw clenches. Brittany will not come around. Brittany knows when to stand up for herself and when enough is enough. People shouldn't take kindness and openness for stupidity and submission. "I'm afraid, Mr. Cox, that this means we will settle matters in court." She feels like she is running in circles, not going anywhere. She wishes things were simpler.

* * *

"This wouldn't have happened if you had bothered to listen to what I say," Santana retorts angrily as she takes off her clothes in the master bedroom. They have just gotten home, and they didn't have much time before the engagement dinner between two of their best friends. Santana had let him know about it when the invitation came in the mail weeks before. As usual, Alexander hadn't bothered to write it down in his planner nor take any other measure to remind himself of the event. As a result, they were late and irritated.

"Stop being such a bitch, Santana," he answers, standing up and walking in her direction. Before she can react, he is pinning her to the wall, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. "It's only fun when you do it in court, you know." The aggressiveness of it feels surprisingly sexy. One of her legs wraps around her husband.

"Stop being a son of a bitch, then." She has taken her shirt and shoes off, which means she's wearing only a skirt and her underwear. "We don't have time for your whining right now." Her tone is cold, meant to hurt him. She wants to, because he doesn't let her express her own feelings and talk about anything. Eight years with him have taught her to bundle up as much as possible for as long as possible; unfortunately, that tactic had its limits. She resents him for that, and cannot stop herself from thinking that Brittany had never done such a thing. On the contrary, she had always encouraged Santana to show the world who she was and how she felt, because there was nothing to hide. Santana misses that type of confidence in herself.

He looks at her for a long moment before kissing her in the most demanding of ways, and she gives in to his body pressing against hers and his hands lifting her in the air, wrapping both legs around him. They are kissing open-mouthed, hot, and roughly. She likes it, how she can bite his lower lip without restraint and sink her nails into his back and make it hurt. He growls something she cannot understand in response to the pain, but if he's erection says anything, he likes it as well. She smiles into the kiss, pleased to see she can still take him off his balance.


	4. Chapter 4

Brittany can barely concentrate on Santana's words. The two women are sitting on Santana's couch in her office, their thighs touching. Apparently they were discussing something about the divorce and Santana is asking for Brittany's opinion as she points something out on the papers she's holding. Santana's perfume is everywhere – soaked into her books, the couch, the scent of her shampoo softly mingling with it all. She looks at Santana's hand, so well manicured and so soft and so elegant. She wonders what they were talking about before her senses got the best of her.

Santana looks up, straight into Brittany's eyes. It only makes things worse. Both of them can feel the tension in the air, the presence of something that they cannot verbalize, that they cannot allow themselves to imagine. Brittany wets her lips, her mouth slightly open in anticipation. There are a few long seconds – she almost can't take it, the tension and the inaction and the sensation that there's only Santana in the world – before the tilting of their heads mirrors each other and their heads are closer by the second. The moment their lips meet is as consensual as it is desired. Santana sighs as her hands cup Brittany's cheek and it is wonderful to have Santana's lips on hers again.

It triggers a longing Brittany had long forgotten and she deepens the kiss, quickly earning a moan from Santana. The papers fall to the ground with a thud but that doesn't break the moment, because Santana is pulling on her lower lip and kissing her again and they have so much lost time to make up for. Their bodies automatically move and before Brittany can grasp any coherent thought she's straddling Santana, arching her body against the brunette as hands run over her back. Brittany breaks the kiss, breathless, and takes her time looking at those familiar features. "I missed you," she whispers before hungrily assaulting Santana's neck.

Santana's neck is a soft spot. Brittany can feel the goosebumps on Santana's arms and the way her breathing becomes erratic and superficial in a matter of seconds. It brings a smile to her lips. Some things do not change indeed. She sucks and bites and licks until Santana whimpers and sinks her nails into Brittany's thighs. Brittany takes in Santana's perfume, breathing into the other woman's neck in a way that makes her gasp and shiver. "Brittany," Santana says weakly before pulling her in for a kiss, to which Brittany obliges contentedly.

Brittany basks in the taste of Santana's tongue against hers and the exploration of Santana's mouth, but she feels the yearning for more already tingling. Santana is holding her firmly with one arm wrapped around her waist and the other hand on the back of her neck. Brittany feels protected; it's like having their connection back without the current restraints. It feels wonderful.

Then Santana trails her kisses down and Brittany's knees weaken when the wet kisses reach her breasts. She wishes she were shirtless already, her hands grasping Santana's shoulders for dear life. She forgets to breathe for a moment, her head tilting back as her hips thrust forward and Santana's hands undo enough buttons of her shirt to explore skin. Santana was too skilled for her own good. "Please," Brittany breathes out, hoping Santana would understand.

Santana does, because she tightens her hold to shift positions and now she's on top of Brittany, unzipping her pants and sneaking her hand inside. Brittany happily spreads her legs open, closing her eyes at the feel of Santana's fingers dipping into wetness. "God, Britt-" Santana mumbles as she begins to thrust, looking into Brittany's eyes.

* * *

Brittany wakes up from the most vivid dream of her life. She sits up on her own bed and looks around the empty room with a frown. Santana is not there. She crosses her legs out of instinct and throws herself back on the bed with a groan, her back arching in need. She is not one to have wet dreams, especially because she is not one to be sexually frustrated in any way. She doesn't know what's worse: not having someone to take the edge off or the vivid sensation of Santana's lips all over her skin. She groans again, unable to tell why she'd had that dream – they were barely past the awkwardness, and surely nowhere near flirting or building up anything sexual between them.

The doorbell rings loudly and she realizes that must be what had woken her up on a Saturday morning. She's not expecting anyone, though. Prince Charming, her dog, is at the door, sniffing curiously and barking every few seconds. The noise and confusion make her give up going back to sleep and hopefully continue the dream, so she gets up. Hopefully it would just be the mailman or something as quick and meaningless.

She opens the door, still rubbing her eyes. "My child!" Her mother squeals and pulls her in for a hug. A glance to the side reveals her father, and everything feels surreal. "John told us!" Because Brittany hadn't done so, obviously. It felt easier to merely float from day to day, doing the absolute necessary and nothing else. Telling anyone means reliving the situation and the pain and the disappointment, and she could live without that.

Her mother lets her go. She is blonde, a little overweight, and obviously maternal. Her eyes are the exact same color as Brittany's and her hair is a little above the shoulders, contrasting with Brittany's long locks. Brittany loves her more than anything. "Hi," Brittany says timidly, wondering if they were mad at her for not telling. "Come in." Her father squeezes her shoulder and Brittany nods at him when they enter the apartment. Prince Charming barks and runs and barks, clearly delighted with the impromptu visit.

If she needed a good cold shower or a slap in the face, this was exactly it. She sighs as she notices they brought suitcases. The last thing she needed was a prolonged stay. Before they notice, she puts on a smile. "Talk to us. We are your parents; we shouldn't be the last ones to know. We were so worried, baby," her father says in his deep voice as he and her mother sit on the couch. He is a good man, in Brittany's opinion. He works hard, has never been dishonest, and loves her mother.

She looks at the floor. "Sorry. If it makes it any better, I didn't tell anyone but Santana." The realization that she shouldn't have said that strikes her like lightning right after the words leave her mouth. Why would she bring up her ex-partner, ex-best friend, ex-lover as the first thing in the conversation? The questioning looks on her parents' faces need no further explaining. Brittany looks apologetic. "She's my lawyer?" she says tentatively, very aware she is putting her foot in her mouth. It is very likely she's delivering the worst explanation mankind has ever witnessed.

"Do elaborate," her father says, his face impenetrable as always, making his daughter even more nervous. She hates not knowing what people are feeling, since she's used to being fairly accurate in her intuitions. Her father has never been of much help there, however. Brittany slumps down on a chair across from the couch.

"You guys know she's a lawyer." She pauses. "I needed a lawyer." Her argument is almost tautological and she cannot explain why her narrative started with Santana and not with John. "I needed a lawyer I trusted to get myself a divorce." There is another pause. Brittany feels exasperated for not being interrupted or questioned by her parents. She doesn't have the story fully organized in her head, and she doesn't know what to tell and where to start. Everything feels confusing, and to be left to her own devices in explaining was unpleasant, to say the least. "Despite everything, I do trust Santana." She bites her lip. "So I called her. It was the first time we spoke to each other since..." The sentence is left hanging. Brittany doesn't wish to finish it.

"But what happened to you and John, sweetie? You always seemed like such a happy couple! Why didn't you tell us anything before you split up?" her mother finally asks. It becomes very clear that none of them knew what went on, and Brittany wonders what they had talked about with John and what exactly her ex-husband had said.

"We were happy, mother." Brittany smiles softly. "At least, I was." It breaks her to say it. She tries to find the words, running a hand over Prince Charming's head in the meantime. "But then I found out he was cheating on me with another woman. So I broke up with him and kicked him out." Prince Charming licks her foot and she smiles at him. She was more of a cat person, but John had convinced her they should get a dog. "There's not much else to say." She does not cry. Maybe John has had his fair share of her tears already, she thinks. "He cheated on me and it's over."

* * *

Santana hurriedly puts her cell phone inside her purse as she enters the restaurant. She was having a nice week, a fine week of having sex at home every night and being a badass at work every day. She still had an edge she couldn't quite get rid of, but she could deal with that – she couldn't deny it was probably the driving force behind her behavior these days. She felt like a shark. Alexander loved it, an underlying statement that both of them were predators cut out for success. He basked in her intensity only to match her competitive ways.

However, her week ceased being good the second Brittany called. It was a Sunday morning, a perfectly pleasant Sunday morning as Alexander performed oral sex on Santana and life was good. Two hours later, she was arriving at a restaurant to have lunch with Brittany's parents, out of all people, feeling sexually frustrated and mildly terrified and wishing she had never picked up the call.

Santana had interrupted the fun the second she realized it was Brittany, much to her own and to Alexander's displeasure. Santana hated leaving business unfinished, and that included her own orgasms. But there was nothing left to do to erase the mental image of Brittany's parents and bring back her arousal. There was no arousal left in the world after the prospect of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Pierce in person.

Last time she had seen them Brittany was still her girlfriend. Girlfriend as in lesbian girlfriend; as in Santana being out and happy about it. Santana tries not to think about that too often, but it's becoming rather impossible. The Pierces are a part of her past that is as significant as it is ignored. They watched her grow up with Brittany and, in many ways, were like family to her. Not to mention they had taken the news that she and Brittany were in a gay relationship with each other much better than the Lopezes, that's for sure.

"Hello there," she says as she spots them already sitting at a table and savoring a glass of wine each. "Sorry for being late," she adds, not offering any further explanation. She had learned from a very young age not to justify her actions. She sits down and it almost feels like déjà vu: Brittany on her left, Mrs. Pierce in front of her, and Mr. Pierce in front of Brittany. The placing had been repeated over and over again during her life.

"Santana." Mr. Pierce is the first to say anything, and Santana worries her fingers under the table. She is sure he is not happy to see her or to acknowledge her existence by the way his mouth forms a thin line, and especially by the way his eyes look at her and judge her. Mrs. Pierce takes her hand and squeezes it gently, for which Santana mentally thanks her. They exchange a graceful nod, and it's good to know at least one of them does not hate her.

"Mr. Pierce," she answers as confidently as she can. "It's a pleasure seeing you and Mrs. Pierce again." It is a blatant lie, but pleasantries ought to be exchanged. She wonders what she is doing there and what exactly was expected of her in that little act of theirs. The ex, the lawyer, the hero, the sinner, the childhood friend: she could be forced to play several roles. Her heart is pounding so fast, she swears the entire restaurant can hear it.

"Same here, Santana. It's been such a long time. Look at how much you've grown!" Santana feels a bit warm at Mrs. Pierce's words. It felt good to receive that kind of easy, maternal affection only she can give. She notices the wrinkles, the thinner skin around the eyes and the few extra pounds, but other than that Brittany's mother still looks the same.

"She's a big lawyer now, mom." Brittany says something for the first time and their eyes meet. All Santana wants to do is hide behind her. She is being scrutinized by the Pierces and she fears she is failing their unspoken trial. Brittany smiles softly at her and the aesthetic perfection of her features strikes Santana once more. "Her office is very nice."

Santana tries to think of a reply, but her mind is still frozen with the pressure of Mr. Pierce's hard eyes and the expectation behind Mrs. Pierce's attitude. She should make things conversational, at least until the main course arrives; going through the entire meal in her current state of nerves is not an option. Thankfully, the waiter arrives at that moment and everyone looks at their own menu to place their orders. She tries to think of something to say when they all go back to staring at each other, but nothing comes to mind.

Brittany's hand sneaks under Santana's, comfortably nesting itself between Santana's palm and Santana's thigh. Santana looks down, surprised, and looks at Brittany. A lot of lines were being crossed with that gesture. They weren't supposed to touch casually or hold hands or talk about their past or about Santana's marriage or about what they were now that they had entered each other lives again. _Breathe_ , Brittany mouths to her, and Santana realizes she had been holding her breath. She looks at their hands again. It feels like sharing a secret, absolutely delightful and forbidden, and she intertwines their fingers.

* * *

Brittany is a little overwhelmed by her parents. They are all over the place, asking her questions, demanding explanations she is not sure she can give. They loved John like a son – it feels like a loss for them as well. There is no going back to the previous state of things, however. It sounds like her mother hasn't fully accepted the consequences and that her father isn't fully accepting the divorce. Brittany wonders if he will meet John to have a man-to-man conversation, whatever that means. It sounds like something her father would do.

Her parents are taking Prince Charming for a walk, and then they plan to visit some relatives, which gives her plenty of time to just be alone in her apartment. She decides to stay home and enjoy the blissful moments of silence, a very wise decision so far. She is spending her time organizing, filling the living room with boxes and boxes and more boxes, getting rid of everything that reminds her of John. She has packed his most essential items, like clothing and personal objects, and left them in the studio. But that was a long time ago, and even though the apartment had stopped smelling like him there was still a universe of small objects and habits that had his name written all over them.

She asks herself if she should sell the apartment and maybe start fresh somewhere else. A place with no memories. She doesn't know if she only means the apartment or the studio or even New York. She wonders if that's what it means to run away from your problems. She sighs. Her thoughts are interrupted by the unexpected finding of her Santana Box, and she finds herself stopping and touching it tenderly.

Not a soul knows about the existence of this box. Brittany's fingers linger on the lock. It's hard not to look at Santana and remember growing up and being in love, and this box is a recollection of everything they were and everything she had wanted to forget back then, when they split up. She gives in to temptation and opens it slowly, as if opening her very own Pandora box.

She is allowing herself to be washed over with their past, their sins, and their pain. There are lots of pictures, tokens, notes, gifts. On top of it, however, lays a letter in Santana's handwriting. Brittany bites her lower lip as she sits on the floor and begins to read it. She knows she shouldn't be doing this, but she can't help herself.

_Britt,_

_I know this is a little unexpected. I am not the type to write letters, but there are some things I need to say that I can't bring myself to when you call. It probably makes me a coward, but I can't start saying something and let you interrupt me or misunderstand me. I'm hoping this letter will make things clearer._

_I miss you, baby. I miss the sound of your voice brightening me up during the day and I also miss your contagious laugh when I least expect it. I miss taking you out for a movie and for something to eat on a Saturday afternoon, I miss sleeping by your side and the smell of your skin when you just wake up, and I miss listening to you sing in the shower._

_It's been two months since we last saw each other, and before that I waited five long months, and before that, three months. It's driving me mad. I dream about you sometimes; dreams where I'm always running after you and never really catching up. We were inseparable before, do you remember? We grew up together, and the idea of spending even a whole month apart always felt like torture._

_Well, we're adding up to fourteen months and I'm dying on the inside. I thought we were lucky that we had both escaped to New York when high school ended because it meant we wouldn't be apart. I realize now that I failed to see – or refused to, I don't even know anymore – that your pursuit of a career in dancing meant not only long rehearsals but also long tours, and that I wouldn't be able to follow you. Your career demands you to travel, and mine, to settle._

_The worst thing is that I know I'm wrong. I know I have no right to demand anything regarding your professional life. You are the owner of your life and I could never ask you to make that type of sacrifice. You would never ask me such a thing, and you have done nothing but support me and encourage me in every single decision ever since we were kids. It would be nothing but unfair to ask you to bend your life to mine. I am not the most important person in our relationship, Britt._

_That doesn't change the fact that I miss you so much it physically aches. I feel lost and empty without you, and I hate myself for that. We should be independent women and I should be a supportive girlfriend, not this needy wreck I'm becoming. I think about your life, the places you visit, all the people that have the privilege of your company, and it makes me feel sick._

_You weren't here to see my graduation. I was fired from that first job because of that excuse of a boss and his homophobia, and you didn't even get to hold me as I cried. I was broke and unemployed and struggling for quite some time and you weren't here to cheer me up. You also didn't get to take me out to celebrate when I was accepted at that big corporate office. Your absence hurts me, baby. I've felt like I'm second place in your priorities for such a long time now._

_I get that you're having wonderful opportunities and that you should take advantage of them. I get that there's nothing you can do to control your tour dates. But I don't know how long I can go on like this, eternally waiting for a quick visit or for phone calls that feel more like an obligation than a pleasure and only get more rare by the week. I feel like I'm losing you. I feel like this relationship is crumbling from the inside and it's everyone's and no one's fault. Have we lost our connection?_

_I'm exhausted._

_S._

Brittany cries.


	5. Chapter 5

Going out with Brittany's parents becomes a habit. They are staying in town for a few days and there are very few people beside their daughter and Santana who they are acquainted with. It surprises her how well they treat her most of the time, as if nothing had happened between her and their daughter; as if they hadn't hurt each other in the past; as if she was merely a childhood friend of their daughter's they had grown fond of.

It does help that Santana is the perfect hostess. She drives them around, buys them dinner, is always well informed about what's happening in the city, and bends her schedule to fit them in as much as she can. They dance around the past, never mentioning anything close to the unspeakable end. It's not easy to reminisce without bringing it up, but they are managing it. The face Mr. Pierce makes is more than enough for everyone to know when to stop. Santana also understands how complicated it must be for Brittany to have her parents around and suddenly be held accountable for her every single decision. From what Santana has picked up on, they were quite fond of Cox and it's not easy for them to let him go.

They arrive at the movies. Mrs. Pierce is talking excitedly about the movie they are about to watch - a historic drama starring her favorite actor, apparently well received by the critics. Santana and Brittany aren't big fans of the genre, but they humor Mrs. Pierce anyway. Mr. Pierce buys them all tickets and his silent look towards Santana as he hands hers off feels like a thank you, to which she nods. She cannot understand that man and his version of tough love.

Brittany's parents sit to her left and Santana to her right. Brittany monopolizes the popcorn, as usual, but Santana doesn't mind. She tries to focus on the movie to ignore the feeling of Brittany's thigh against hers. It's distracting. If she were honest with herself, from the moment Brittany held her hand during that first dinner with her parents an invisible line had been crossed. Their unspoken agreement had changed, filling their time together with forbidden, hidden touches that made her skin crawl and her heart race.

Santana doesn't avert her gaze, refusing to check if Brittany is paying as much attention to their touching as she is, to see if it takes the blonde off her balance as much as it does Santana. So she looks at the screen instead, reading the opening credits with an attention and dedication she wouldn't otherwise have. But then, when the movie finally starts, Brittany covers Santana's hand with her own and it's impossible for Santana not to look to her left and check if it's really happening. Brittany's parents are immersed in the film, thankfully, and no one else seems to notice.

Santana cannot understand what lies behind the sweet look Brittany gives her, the underlying statement that holding hands is the most natural thing in the world. The moment ends when the sound of an explosion brings their eyes back to the screen, the warmth of Brittany's hand equally disturbing and settling. Santana can't bring herself to let go, and they hold hands to the very end.

* * *

 

Brittany looks out the window as Santana drives to the airport. She's relieved that her parents' short stay is coming to an end. They were unintentionally demanding, not only to her but also to Santana. She feels immensely thankful for the brunette, who had been nothing but pleasant and had fitted into her schedule a family that wasn't her own. She drove them around, took them out for dinner and movies, out for ice cream and to the museum. She discussed the divorce, with Brittany's permission, and she impressed them with her professionalism and excellent oral skills.

From Brittany, the demands were of a different nature. They wanted her time, her thoughts, her feelings, in their attempt to protect their daughter from the painful situation; especially her mother, who looked at her with worried eyes. They were permanently talking to her, analyzing her in search of the smallest hint of sadness. She would lay her head in her mother's lap for hours, enjoying her gentle touch massaging her head and playing with her hair.

She doesn't mind that much, most of the time. But an entire week proved itself to be a reality shock and a tiring experience. Being obliged to talk again and again and again about every little detail made her process the situation and come to terms with it, in a way. She had cleared her mind on the topic and could finally see a future for herself unattached from John. She began to accept the change in her heart and her new opinion of him.

She missed him, still. She missed their daily habits and his company. His things were out of the apartment, at least, so the visual reminders of him were finally gone. But the memories persisted, and the process of recreating rituals was slow and often saddening. Most of all, she missed having someone who knew her inside out, who could read her face like an open book; someone who just understood, without an extensive explanation on the reasons and consequences of herself.

Santana nudges her shoulder, waking Brittany from her melancholy. _Lighten up_ , the brunette mouths to her, and Brittany smiles in response. She loves how Santana is always paying attention to her and her needs. Even after so long and so much, Santana has her back. Her parents argue in the background about the presents her mother had bought for the entire family in Ohio and the possible excess baggage. The women fall back into comfortable silence. The sun is shining. Brittany loves sunny days.

* * *

 

For Santana, it feels like rediscovering uncharted territory. She and Brittany have to define their limits all over again, one by one. Their relationship has a past, an amazing one, but not a present. They officially mean nothing and own no explanation to each other. Practice, though, has proven that Brittany is not merely a client, that Santana cares for her and her well-being. It is frustrating for the brunette, who likes to imagine herself as a woman free of regrets, in terms of her life and her past.

Santana does not take clients out for ice cream or for a cup of coffee. She doesn't take them to the movies just because they love the seventh art and have no company, like she is doing at the moment. Her heart doesn't race when her clients accidentally or deliberately touch her. She surely doesn't feel protective of her clients. She imagines what Alexander would say about her behavior and the disapproving look she would surely get. At least he is out of town and would never know. His words still sting, because she knows that he's not entirely wrong.

A talking lizard says something funny on the screen and Brittany laughs. Her hand settles right above Santana's knee like she owns it, her arm resting on Santana's thigh and her thumb caressing exposed skin. Santana half wishes she was wearing pants and not a skirt, and half wishes her skirt was shorter too. It seems to last forever. She doesn't know how to react. She lets it happen, never acknowledging the pervasive touches but also never rejecting them.

The movies have become their safe haven. It's light, an opportunity to just sit there and enjoy each other's presence. It is free from people's wondering eyes and judgment, protecting them from both circles of friends. Its forced anonymity feels strangely liberating to Santana. It is a moment she shares with Brittany and Brittany only, where their own boundaries are blurred and forgotten. It reminds her of her youth, when they were girlfriends and went to the movies every Saturday afternoon.

After a few minutes, Brittany takes Santana's hand and intertwines their fingers. Santana secretly loves it; the way the blonde recreates their physical connection so naturally, like Santana still belongs to her. For the first time, Santana gathers the courage to make a bold move, lifting the armrest out of the way and pulling Brittany closer. The blonde shifts in her seat so that her body turns to Santana a bit as the brunette's arms sneak around her. Santana breathes weakly, hesitant about her own bold gesture. She hopes Brittany doesn't realize how fast her heart is pounding.

Brittany throws her head back a bit, sighing contentedly. Her forehead is resting against Santana's neck as she settles in a comfortable position. Her hands find Santana's once again. Some time later, the talking lizard meets a talking turtle and the blonde laughs at their interaction. Santana smiles softly and for the first time in a long time, there is no pressure, no worries, no expectations. She kisses Brittany's forehead slowly, breathing in her sweet perfume.

* * *

Santana has to admit she has been slacking on Brittany's case. Her law firm was working full speed, and with Alexander's trip to Washington she's had a lot to handle on her own. She had two recent additions to her team – a pair of young, promising girls who had just graduated – who still needed to be taught how to play the game. Her free time, normally a chance for her to focus on Brittany's divorce, had been completely consumed by Mr. and Mrs. Pierce's visit.

She looks at Brittany, who's getting them both a cappuccino, and promises herself she will not do it again. If she lets herself get too caught up, the case will never come to an end. Brittany deserves an end; even if means Santana might have to stop seeing her. She doesn't know if they've really reconnected or if it's just a passing imposition. Their ability to easily fall back into old dynamics could possibly imply falling back into disconnectedness and confusion.

"There you go." Brittany arrives. "Searing hot, just like you like it," she says before sitting down and sipping her cup. Santana mirrors the gesture. It's delicious and hot and the mere contact with caffeine makes her feel better.

"Thank you," she answers. It's early because she wanted their meeting to be the first thing in her day, even if just to allow her to meet Brittany outside the office. Santana doesn't feel comfortable there, the atmosphere being too distant and cold for the situation. The clash of worlds bothers her; the past versus the present, lesbianism versus heteronormativity. For the moment, she prefers to keep it compartmentalized.

"So. I can either give in or fight," Brittany declares, summing up the entire situation with simplicity, as usual. Santana secretly hopes for a fight, partly because the blonde shouldn't settle for less and partly because Santana wants to spend more time with her, even if just as a lawyer.

"Yes. He is unwilling to accept our conditions. You can come up with another proposal and wait for his response, of course. Our other option is a litigious process, where a judge decides who is right or wrong in this. It takes, however, much longer. And it's likely to be more painful." She sips her coffee slowly, purposely giving Brittany time to answer.

Brittany stares at her cup for a long moment. "I just want it to be over soon, Santana. Could we maybe meet, the three of us? Maybe we can reason with him," Brittany says and looks at her, asking for her permission. Santana sighs and nods, telling herself it can work out. Maybe what Cox needs is to face reality.

* * *

Santana is replying to an email on her iPhone when Brittany kisses her cheek affectionately. "Hey you." She puts down her phone and looks at the other woman, who has both hands on the armrest of her chair and is looking at her with a smile. Santana smiles back, feeling warmer with the gesture. Their faces are still close, the tips of blonde hair cascading over Santana's shoulders and impregnating her nostrils with the sweet scent of Brittany's shampoo.

"Ready to go?" Brittany asks, straightening up. Santana nods, placing her phone back in her purse. She had ordered an espresso before, but it was already finished and paid for. "Sorry I'm a bit late, by the way." Santana acknowledges the blonde's outfit: tight jeans, boots and a white t-shirt. She likes what she sees, but says nothing.

"You're forgiven." Santana gets up and gestures for them to go, opening the door for Brittany on their way out. "It's not like we have a tight schedule, anyway." That is the beauty of a Sunday afternoon, after all; its slow rhythm, with nothing else to do but bask in tranquility and let the day pass by. The weather does nothing but help, sunny and fresh.

"Did I tell you my good news?" Brittany asks as they walk side by side on their way to the park. "An old friend – you know, Jim, from the dance company – called me the other day to tell me he's putting together a number and he wants my help." Her face is beaming with a hint of pride and accomplishment. "He said he remembers how good I was and he wants to talk. We're meeting next week to discuss things."

"That's great!" Santana smiles at her. Brittany deserved everything, and this change, however small, was probably good for her. It would give her something else to focus on, something that doesn't have Cox written all over it. "I bet you'll rock his world," she says sincerely, nudging the blonde's shoulders with her own. "Do tell me all about it after you meet with him."

Brittany looks down, grinning, and Santana finds this shyness adorable. They arrive at the park, doing their best not to get in the way of the children running and having fun. Santana feels calm, for a change, and she decides to enjoy the feeling as much as possible. They sit by the lake, in front of the most perfect tree in the world, according to Brittany. It was a complex calculation; the comfort of the tree versus the grass versus its closeness to the lake and, of course, the ducks.

Santana begins to talk about her week and Brittany rests her head on Santana's shoulder, causing her to wrap an arm around Brittany's waist in search of a better position. It feels good to be able to relax and not talk about anything important; to sit under a tree and have Brittany's picnic basket next to her in case they – or the ducks – get hungry. Brittany's fingers trace random patterns on Santana's thigh and it tingles.


	6. Chapter 6

Alexander stares at Brittany. He's wearing a dark green dress shirt, black dress pants, and she has to admit he looks great. His presence makes it so Santana is not by her side, however. This time, Santana is on Alexander's right, in front of Brittany; except Santana has left the dinner table to take a call, and it's just Alexander staring at Brittany. They have nothing to say to each other and Brittany doesn't know how lawyers make conversation, so she settles for saying nothing.

Alexander doesn't look like he makes small talk. He looks like he is all business and money and cold, hard reality. Brittany wonders why he had even bothered to get to know her. His jealousy is blatant, as well as his possessiveness. It becomes very clear how Santana is his and no one else's by the way he held her waist, pulled her chair, and held her hand. It becomes even more obvious that he sees Brittany as a threat.

She thinks to herself that he is right in his assessment. Long before being his, Santana had belonged to Brittany for much longer than he could ever dream of; so in a way she really is a threat. Not that he would know that – the brunette had made it very clear that her husband did not know about her past, their past, and that it was for the best he remained blissfully ignorant. It triggers a worry in Brittany, a deep certainty the brunette is playing high school all over again, hiding from any prejudice and judgment that might derive from her lesbianism.

Santana returns and Brittany thanks every pagan god for the interruption. Alexander's scrutiny is uncomfortable and invasive, to say the least. They both smile at Santana, because there are words that are never meant to surface. They don't need to say anything, and it works for both to pretend they aren't having a silent dispute. Alexander holds his wife's hand and Brittany feels that the space between her and Santana is much wider than it seems. The smug grin on Alexander's face comes from the sheer pride of being next to Santana. It is indeed an amazing sensation, Brittany thinks.

She snaps out of her trance to smile to Santana and laugh at something she says. Brittany feels like a spectator, unable to take part in the intricate steps of the couple's dance. She is accustomed to being the center of Santana's universe, but things have changed. She now takes the back seat, playing the smallest of roles in the brunette's life. It's better than nothing, but still.

She wishes for the night to be over, already. Alexander has reinforced his opinion of her and his hostility; she is displeased at having to watch Santana in another relationship – she has just realized it's the first time she sees the brunette emotionally invested in anyone but her – and Santana is trying her best to juggle between the two of them, without success.

It feels cold and hollow. For a second only, Brittany allows herself to imagine what it would be like to have Santana. Her eyes fill with an overflowing sadness that she tries to mask by drinking more wine. She forbids herself to imagine such things. They had their chance once, didn't they? This feeling in the pit of her stomach was nothing but nostalgia and one too many glasses of wine.

* * *

 

 

Deep down, she knows that teaching Santana how to tango is nothing but a bad idea. Tango is too sexy, too intense, too angry. It is an analogy for flirting, with the woman pulling away and the firm hold of the gentleman bringing her back, demanding an inebriating closeness; bodies touching too often for their sake. It just happens, though. Before she can ponder the consequences, the words are escaping her mouth and Santana is accepting the proposal.

Brittany doesn't know what she is doing. She just feels the impending need to recreate the connection they once had, even if at a mere physical level. She feels so lonely yet so happy to be around Santana again that the touching is inevitable. She doesn't know what she would do without the brunette to share the weight of her own life. The last few days with Santana have been amazing, to make everything worse. It's thrilling to once again feel that there's no one else in the world for either of them.

Dancing makes it worse. Brittany is leading, eyes locked with Santana's as she takes one, two, three steps forward, and then makes Santana turn around, bodies touching before Santana languidly distances herself from Brittany. It is absolutely hypnotic to watch Santana's hips as if she were born to dance. Brittany takes Santana in her arms again and she looks away, her right foot going to the left, and then her left foot going to the right as Brittany guides her moves.

Maybe Brittany is doing this because she met Alexander, who gained a layer of reality he had yet to possess. Before that night he was a hypothesis, a mere theoretical exercise. Now, Santana is undeniably married to another lawyer - a tall, serious, and very real man. The gold ring on her finger never looked so bright and big and Brittany cannot oversee it anymore: Santana is married to another. Santana is married to another and that is why Brittany is leading. For those brief moments, there is nothing but them and the blonde gets to take Santana wherever she wants.

The rest of the time, Alexander leads the way.

There's a long moment during which Santana wraps her legs around Brittany and they stare intensely at each other. The blonde imagines herself throwing Santana against the mirror and taking her right then and there. She swirls them around in a complete circle, surprised to see that the brunette doesn't lose her balance. "If I hadn't know better, I'd say you can actually tango."

Santana smirks. "Barely," she answers, performing a succession of quick steps in harmony with the beat. It's a pleasant, enticing surprise. Her lips are lustful and too close. Brittany pushes her away and distances herself in the name of self-control. Santana comes closer again and they dance across the room. "You should wear a hat, though." Her grin has mischief written all over it and it automatically reminds her of sex. "You know, just for the sake of the music."

Brittany can barely think of anything. "I do have one," she offers. It's a beautiful hat, bought in Buenos Aires two years before. "But you would have to wear a dress." The mental image is thrilling and makes her smile. The music ends, but they don't quite break apart. For a long moment, they just listen to each other's breathing, enjoying the closeness. Santana's lips are parted open and a little too inviting. It becomes harder not to relive her dreams; dreams of sweat and moans and Santana's naked body.

Her phone rings and breaks the moment. "I should get that," she says, distracted, turning her back to Santana to get her purse. Her heart is racing uncontrollably and her voice trembles a bit as she says hi to Jim and strikes up a conversation about the auditions the following day. Her eyes purposefully avoid the brunette, focusing instead on her own feet.

* * *

 

 

Brittany wakes up in the middle of the night and can't bring herself to sleep again. She is going to face John in two days and the thought of it is terrifying. Santana will be by her side, of course, but still. After the encounter in the studio when Santana made him leave, she hadn't had a glimpse of her soon-to-be ex-husband. After an hour fussing in bed, she decides to get up, drink some milk, and pass the time.

She stares out the window. New York is a hard town, sometimes, she thinks to herself as she sees concrete and automobiles. She spends a few moments in contemplation before heating up her milk. Prince Charming wakes up, but barely registers her presence before going back to sleep. She sits by the window, cup in hand.

She should be thinking about Jim and his proposal for her to work with him. She should be thinking of choreography and auditions and the work it is going to take, and how grateful she is to Jim for thinking of her in the most perfect of moments. Instead, she thinks of Alexander's hand on the small of Santana's back, about Santana's perfume as they danced. She doesn't even realize she is doing it.

She thinks of their past, the good and the bad, and all the things that were left unsaid, that remained unspoken, as if bringing it up would mean to risk breaking the little they had rebuilt. She thinks about John and the loving husband he was until he wasn't. About the amazing chemistry she had had with him the first time they danced onstage. She thinks about Santana in her Cheerios uniform, and then Santana singing Songbird to her, and then Santana graduating from high school.

She opens her Santana Box once more. There is something in there that is exactly what she needs. She needs to remind herself they were far from perfect. Their time together hadn't come to an end without a reason, without a succession of happenings building up to a breaking point. She finds an envelope and runs her thumb over it in a gentle caress. Brittany has never been one for words, but there were moments where the occasion called for them.

At that moment, after all was said and done, she wishes she had actually sent this letter.

_Santana,_

_I dreamed of you last night. It was awesome. We were at a beach, walking hand in hand. The sun was shining, the sand was white and warm and there were even a few birds flying. I was wearing a blue bikini and carrying our stuff and you were in a green bikini, looking smoking hot as usual. I felt happy._

_You placed a big towel on the sand and lay down on your stomach. I took the sunscreen, straddled you and began to apply it. Of course, the sunscreen was only an excuse to massage your body entirely. It took the longest of times, going through your back, your legs, your shoulders, your arms, and everything I could touch. When I was finished, you were asleep, grinning. I smiled and got up, took my surfing board – yes, I had a board, a white and blue one, how cool is that? – and got in the water._

_The waves were perfect and the water was just a little bit cool. I could surf very well in the dream. Being in the water made me feel happy and free, even when I fell from the board. I liked to stretch my hand just to touch the water, to feel it in my fingers. When I got tired I let myself be, floating with my board and staring at the birds on the sky._

_When I got back you were already awake, propping yourself up on your elbows, laying on your back, and looking at me with the same wild look you used to get when you watched me shower after Cheerios practice. I sat by your side in silence. You said I was a very good surfer and that you could watch me forever._

_Our lips met and I got you to lie down again, then got on top of you. You told me I tasted salty, and I answered you tasted like orange juice. Then we kissed again and you let me lead. I kissed you very slowly, playing with your lips in that way that gets you to make those little noises. Your skin was hot from being exposed to the sun and I felt cold from being in the water, but the contrast wasn't unpleasant at all._

_We had stopped for a moment and you were looking right into my eyes when I woke up. Now that I think about it, I've dreamed a lot about water and beaches and things like that this last week. Does that mean anything? I have an aunt that says dreams always mean something. You just have to figure them out._

_I guess what I'm trying to say is that I miss you and Barcelona isn't half as amazing as it should be because I keep thinking about how I would love to see it with you. I think the dream felt great because it was just you and me. I'm so far away from you, and when I go to NY you're always so busy and I always feel so guilty for taking your time and getting in the way of your studies and the life I know you lead when I'm far._

_I miss being together. It's so hard to understand you when I'm not looking at your face as we speak. Those long silences and the sound of your breathing say a lot less than the way your brow furrows or your fingers move or how you walk or how your hold onto something. I can't tell if you believe me when I say I miss you and the reason you get so jealous of some dancers is really, really silly. I have loved you all my life, don't you remember?_

_Don't get me wrong when I say this, but you're being needy and insecure and selfish like never before. Our relationship has been about you and your needs, not once about me. When was the last time you asked me how I felt? I can tell you're suffering, but I am too. My hours are long and a moment in the spotlight is a war here. A bit like the Cheerios, sometimes, with the difference I was the best dancer there and never asked for attention and now I'm one among many and I want as many solos as I can get. But you don't know that, do you? I feel like I don't have a chance to tell you._

_I don't see right through you anymore. I love you, but maybe the distance and the different worlds we live in are building walls between you and me. We barely get along with each other's friends. And because I love you, it hurts so much. Everything is changing and I'm not keeping up. You are changing, too, and I don't know why, and I can't stop you. We're dancing to different beats._

_Love,_

_B._

* * *

Alexander's arrival is like a cold shower to Santana. Her life goes back to normal, depriving her of the time to have dinner, ice cream, coffee or anything else with Brittany as much as she'd like, and reminding her she has someone to come home to at the end of the day. She notices his jealousy and does her best to reassure him he is the only one, but it isn't clear how convincing she is. He looks like he's buying the act, but it only lasts as long as he doesn't hear about anything to do with the blonde.

He is possessive with her in a way she could never be, and it shows. She is his number one priority, and at the end of the day he has built his life around her. She has done the same, too, but it's far from what he has done and she was never as emotionally invested as he is. She sees it now. She sees it now that Brittany is back and the need to be around her is so much more intense than the need to come home to Alexander.

She still smiles and lets him hold her hand and make love to her like nothing has changed and she even lets her breathing become shallow and rapid so he thinks she is still responding to the same touches. She tries to hold it together because she knows it will pass and her marriage will thrive above this. Alexander does not deserve any of it, she tells herself as she examines his handsome features in bed before he wakes up.

An idea strikes her. If there is one person who can understand the need to project the perfect image, to envision and conquer her goals and, at the same time, who knows about her path in life, it's Quinn Fabray. She gets up and writes an e-mail so long she almost misses Pilates that morning.

* * *

 

This is not the first time Brittany leaves the house for a quick jog in search for some kind of release. Too unsettled with her own life and too impatient for the solitude and silence, she jogs. At times it lasts less than thirty minutes; at others it lasts hours, as she allows herself to be lost in the immensity and anonymity that is New York. It comes from a sudden urge to move, to do something with her body to take the edge off.

It doesn't work every time. Sometimes she gets home as frustrated and flustered as she left, and she begins to dislike her apartment without even knowing why. She showers and she eats, accompanied by a vague feeling she can't figure out. Sometimes she calls a friend and goes out, but she is far from being a party girl and that can't be done every night.

She still doesn't have the guts to take the edge off by having sex with anyone.

She's in shorts, sweaty and breathless from running, when someone knocks on the door. Asking herself who it could be, she opens the door. It's John. She freezes, taking a step back to physically distance herself from him. "Brittany," he says, and all she can think is that she wants Santana, who would figure this out and handle the situation assertively and effectively. She wants Santana, with her pragmatism and fierceness, to make him leave.

But Santana is not there. "You shouldn't be here."

He seems to think she has somehow allowed him to step into the home he shattered with his own wrongdoings and enters the house. "This is my house, too," he answers, frowning when she takes a few more steps back, rebuilding the space between them. "And we can't not talk forever." She hates him for cheating, she hates him for leaving her like that, she hates that every relationship she's had has ended painfully.

"We'll talk tomorrow, with the lawyers." She pauses. "There are some mistakes I can't forgive." He is the personification of her current state of life, of her pain, but he is also the personification of such a huge part of her. She loves his smell, she loves the sound of his voice, she loves that he never stopped giving her small gifts, she loved when he looked at her just for the sake of looking at her and she could feel the soft affection emanating from him.

"Britt," he says softly and walks towards her until he's closer than she'd like. She feels trapped between the sofa and John, her heartbeat going out of control as she stares at the wall to her right. She doesn't get what he could possibly want from going there and her cellphone is nowhere in sight, so she can't call Santana. "I'm sorry for this mess."

"Then you shouldn't have cheated on me in the first place!" she says, looking at him again, hands going to his chest to push him away. She's crying already, crying for what she has lost and, mostly, crying for what could have been a happy life together.

He holds her wrists to stop her from pushing and doesn't let go. She immediately regrets establishing physical contact. "I'm sorry for breaking you. Let's try again. We were so good before." She's sobbing uncontrollably, asking herself what she did to deserve any of this. Bad things shouldn't happen to good people.

He takes advantage of her lack of response and kisses her. She doesn't shove him away, so he keeps on kissing. She's hurt, everything in her life is confusing and improper and she is so thirsty and desperate for something, _anything_ at all. When he tries to deepen the kiss, she lets him, hoping that maybe it can solve things, maybe its what she needs. When clothes begin falling on the floor and he has her on the couch, it feels pleasant and absolutely unfulfilling.

* * *

 

Brittany feels dirty. She disentangles herself from John and goes take a shower. Her mistake sinks in too fast and she begins to panic. Why did she do this a day before it could all be over? Was she sabotaging her divorce? God, what would Santana say? She feels like vomiting and crying and running away at the same time. She can't answer her own questions and she's afraid she has ruined everything.

The shower is long and she scrubs herself frantically, as if wanting to erase every single trace of her (ex?) husband. What she felt was wrong to her, to him, to Santana, and would only make things worse. He would now be confident there was a chance; but one good thing that came out of it is that Brittany now sees John is no longer the answer. She's still unsatisfied, craving something else. She doesn't cry.

When she leaves the bathroom she realizes she has no plan. Being there is not a possibility: John can wake up at any moment. She doesn't know where to go or who to call. She doesn't want to burden her friends with her personal mess. She puts on some clothes and gets her purse, finding her cell phone in it. As standard procedure, she dials Santana's number – she never learned how to use speed dial, anyway.

She answers on the first ring. "Brittany? Has something happened?" Her voice is a tad huskier than usual, and only then does Brittany realize that most people are asleep at that time. For the first time, she feels like she's intruding on Santana's life, claiming a right that isn't hers to begin with. For a moment, she doesn't know what to say. "Brittany?"

"Can I come over?" She asks, avoiding the question. She doesn't want to have this conversation over the phone. She doesn't want to have this conversation at all; the only thing she needs is to see the brunette.

Santana doesn't hesitate. "Of course," she says, giving Brittany her address. "I'll be waiting for you."

* * *

 

Santana waits by the door, wearing a white nightgown, and wonders what might have happened. Luckily enough, Alexander hadn't woken up. God bless that heavy sleeper, she thinks. The taxi finally arrives and Brittany comes right to her arms. Santana can tell she has been crying, so she does nothing but hold her tight, one hand going to the blonde's hair and the other enveloping her firmly by the waist. Brittany fists her gown, head hidden in the crook of Santana's neck. The brunette closes the door with her foot and just stays there, breathing in sweet perfume as she fills with worry.

It must have been something serious enough to make Brittany fall into old patterns and come to Santana at such an ungodly hour. Brittany steps back a little to look in Santana's eyes and her mouth opens and closes, as if she's trying to say something but can't quite bring herself to. Santana cups both of her cheeks. "It's okay," she says, trying to read the strangled look in Brittany's face, too concerned to notice their bodies are still touching completely.

Brittany nods weakly. Santana takes them both to the couch. She mentally thanks Alexander for having insisted in such a big, comfortable piece – really, they have a guest room already, why have a couch two people can sleep on? – because when she sits down, Brittany automatically sits between her legs, the right side of her body turned to Santana, and there's still plenty of space. They stay like that for God knows long, Santana's arm encircling Brittany, protecting her, their fingers intertwined.

She looks at the blonde with tender eyes, because she looks so small and hurt. She tightens her hold, wishing some of the sadness would rub off on her and lighten the weight on Brittany's shoulders. She holds her, because she has never done anything else but to hold her and take care of her. It gives her purpose; it gives her meaning. "It's gonna be okay," she whispers, even if she doesn't have the slightest clue of what is going on.

Brittany cries softly and Santana's heart clenches in response. They say you never forget your first love, but this isn't just about forgetting, it's waking up from a long dream. The feeling she once had doesn't seem to have subsided, and maybe time doesn't heal at all. Santana does what she knows best—comfort Brittany through tact—and kisses her wet cheek, her wet chin, jawline, hand on the back of her neck as she proceeds with a ritual that could pass for worshipping. She kisses away the tears as Brittany's hands hold onto her clothes and don't let go.

When she reaches Brittany's neck, her tears have ceased, replaced by soft sighs. Blue eyes are closed, breaths evening out, fingers going to Santana's hair. Santana herself feels calmer, for touching is as soothing as being touched. Brittany exposes her neck a bit more, and they're so intertwined Santana fears if she dares say anything she'll wake up from a dream.

Their eyes lock for a long moment. Brittany touches her cheek and Santana kisses her pulse. "Everything will end up okay, sweetheart." She kisses it again and again and again. "You will get through everything, do you hear me?" Brittany nods and mumbles a thank you. Santana boops her nose and they settle in a more comfortable position. They both fall asleep without moving, tangled in each other.


	7. Chapter 7

When Brittany wakes up, she opens her eyes quickly, taking in her surroundings as the night before rushes back to her mind. She closes her eyes in pain, internally hating herself. She thinks of her own stupidity, her own recklessness, and mentally punishes herself. She's stupid, stupid, stupid and inadequate. John would now assume they were back together, and why wouldn't he? They were to have a crucial meeting that very day, and she managed to ruin it at the last minute.

She doesn't feel as dirty anymore, because Santana's touch has re-claimed her. She doesn't feel John's hands anymore; all she feels is the brunette's perfume lingering on her skin. It's a soothing sensation that almost lulls her back to sleep.

How could Brittany break the awful news to Santana? She pictures the look on Santana's face, the hurt and the anger, and feels like going back to sleep for a week or two and postpone the moment. That's how Santana reacts, or at least used to react: screaming, throwing things, being passive-aggressive. This time, she would be entitled to act that way.

"Don't you dare." Santana voice makes itself heard, far away. She sounds harsh. Brittany holds her breath and goes quiet, but she can only hear the end of the next sentence. "... and she needs me." It shouldn't be like this, she shouldn't feel this good when she realizes Santana is defending her, but it is happening and she smiles.

"This is my house too!" There's Alexander voice, deep and annoyed, followed by a long silence. Then there are footsteps, the door opens, and Santana is there.

"Good morning," she says and she smiles, as if her argument with Alexander never happened. Her hand touches Brittany's cheek softly as she sits on the couch. "Did you sleep well?" She has her concerned voice on. Brittany nods, eyes closing to the feeling of Santana skin, familiar fingers shaping her features again and again. "Good, good. I made you breakfast. There's toast, jam, eggs, chocolate cake, and orange juice." Brittany nods again excitedly. Confusing or not, Brittany loves breakfast.

They get up and Brittany's heartbeat goes crazy when Santana holds her by the waist. Santana is possessive, concerned, holding Brittany within arm's length, like Brittany belongs to her. There's a familiarity in it, a vague feeling of being protected, of finding her safe haven.

* * *

Santana had known her husband wouldn't love Brittany's presence in their household. She can see his jealousy, the reconnaissance that Brittany shared something meaningful with his wife. Some damage control had to be done in such a situation to avoid that their probable argument ever reached Brittany's ears. The blonde didn't need to feel like a burden right now. So Santana wakes up earlier than usual, buys enough food to feed a king, and sets the table for three. The clock seems to be hovering over her, a permanent reminder that there is probably going to be no third person eating with them.

Her prediction proved itself to be true when Alexander, true to his habits, shows up in the kitchen with a confused frown. "Did you not sleep in our bed?" He asks, not used to waking up to the cold feeling of the sheets on her side of the bed. She sighs and tries to explain the call, the fragile state the blonde was in, but she sees it's a lost battle when she does as little as mention Brittany's name. "Really, Santana? And then you make her breakfast, like I've never seen you do before?" He pauses. "Maybe you should-"

She interrupts him. "Don't you dare." They are not going to fall into these patterns again. She will not have him tell her unrequested how to live her life. She is getting tired of such arguments, tired of having to explain herself over and over again. "We are not going to have this argument where you tell me how to live my life and I get angry. We have a guest. And she needs me."

"This is my house too!" Alexander says, leaving the kitchen.

She takes a moment to gather herself before facing Brittany. When she gets to the couch, there's a blonde hidden by the sheets, blinking up at her. "Good morning," Santana says softly and smiles, because Brittany is adorable. Her hand goes to Brittany's cheek in a soft caress as she sits on the couch. "Did you sleep well?" Brittany nods, eyes closing, and Santana can't help but draw her features with her fingers again and again. "Good, good. I made you breakfast. There's toast, jam, eggs, chocolate cake, and orange juice." Brittany nods excitedly.

She barely even registers her own arm encircling Brittany's waist when they get up and she leads her into the living room. The blonde's eyes widen at the sight of the table, because Santana remembered how much the blonde loves breakfast. Santana pulls her chair closer to Brittany's when they sit down, placing a lock of sunny hair behind Brittany's ear before serving them both a cup of coffee. It earns her a grin, promptly mirrored by her own.

It's almost unfair how Alexander never managed to take her breath away like Brittany does just by sitting there with that early morning light; or make her heart race as touching Brittany always does to her. She adores him, she respects him, but he never made her as concerned for him as she was for Brittany the night before.

"Thank you, San." Brittany interrupts her line of thought and kisses her cheek, lingering for a few seconds too long. The hand on Santana's thigh feels like it's burning and she covers it with her own. Brittany's breath is hot and Santana closes her eyes.

"You're welcome, sweetheart." The word rolls off her tongue so naturally again, she can't bring herself to feel bad about it. Their foreheads touch as they open their eyes, expectant of something yet to be named.

The moment breaks with the sound of Alexander's footsteps descending the stairs. Santana jumps in her seat and straightens up like she's been hit by lightning. He barely acknowledges the both of them, mumbling a good morning and grabbing a piece of cake before leaving. What had just happened? The women exchange a guilty look when the door closes, but nothing is said.

* * *

Brittany feels guilty in so many levels she can't even begin her list. It's impossible to look at Santana and not feel her heart clenching, because this is the closest they have been since forever and Brittany is completely undeserving. She has betrayed Santana's trust once by doing what she did and twice for not telling her right away. When you lose the perfect momentum, what is there to do?

She had crossed the invisible line of Santana's home, causing her trouble with her husband. She had crossed the invisible line that determined both of them were independent women, not supposed to rely on each other like that. And still, Santana had welcomed her, served her breakfast, and smothered her with attention and love. The way she closes her eyes when Brittany kisses her cheek, how she plays with Brittany's hair, or how she looks at Brittany leaves no room for doubts. It's love, it's their puppy love all over again. The fact that she cancelled her meetings for the morning—it's love.

This feels too good for Brittany to break. Santana reads the news sitting on the couch as Brittany watches something on TV, head resting on Santana's lap. The other woman hadn't asked once about the previous night, which makes it even worse. This understanding and patient Santana is unexpected. Santana had grown up, after all.

Another hour passes by before Brittany opens her mouth. "We need to talk."

* * *

Santana hates that sentence, because it's never a good thing when someone has to announce it like that. She puts her phone aside when she hears Brittany say it, pulse racing when the blonde sits up and looks right into her eyes. Santana has great instincts and they are telling her she is not going to like this.

She takes a deep breath. "About what happened last night?" she tries, tentatively. There is a myriad of subjects to discuss when it comes to the two of them, but what Santana wants to hear the most is what happened the night before that left the blonde so fragile. She hadn't asked out of respect for Brittany, who would say what she needed to say when she needed to say it, but Santana needed to know.

"Yes." The long silence that follows the answer and Brittany's wondering eyes that never seem to meet Santana's make the moment even more unsettling. Santana runs a checklist through her mind once again, reaching the conclusion that it could only be John. She stretches her arm out and holds the blonde's hand. "John showed up at our—I mean, my apartment."

Then there's anger. It was so arrogant of him, to show up a day before a crucial meeting, purposefully trying to ruin things. It was startling how he hadn't gotten the message that, even if he does manage to ruin the case, he would not manage to rebuild what he had lost. Brittany doesn't belong to him anymore. Santana had learned the hard way that Brittany's decision to let go is always irrevocable and irrefutable, and John would learn it soon enough.

At the end of the day, Brittany is always the one who holds all the cards.

"I-I tried to make him leave, but he didn't, and I yelled at him that he shouldn't have broken us-" She stops abruptly, as if trying to find the appropriate words to describe what happened. The look in her eyes is unbearable enough to get Santana talking.

"He's just trying to ruin the case, but he won't." She places a hand on Brittany's thigh and pulls her closer, but the other woman gestures negatively.

"Just let me say it, Santana." The brunette arches an eyebrow, suddenly guilty for initiating the touch, and retreats. "John, he- me too, I mean we-" Something is very wrong. Something is very wrong and Santana doesn't want to hear the end of the sentence. "We had sex." Santana's heart drops.

At the end of the day, Brittany is always the one who holds all the cards. "Excuse me? What did you just say?" Santana asks her, because this cannot be real; this is not real. Brittany is turning tables once again, and Santana is breaking.

"I don't know, it just happened and-"

Then there's even more anger, boiling under the surface. If that is the best Brittany has to say, she'll have to try harder. "It just happened, Brittany? Is that the best thing you have to say right now?" She hides her face in her hands, jerking away from Brittany's touch when the blonde makes the first attempt at closeness. "You should have thought of a better excuse, really."

"I'm sorry, Santana." Brittany has her sad panda face on, but Santana cannot be the one to hold her together this time.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! Don't you get it?" Santana says, exasperated. All this, for nothing. "What is this to you? A joke? I'm working my ass off for you, Brittany, to take up a case I'm not even specialized in, working extra hours without making a single dime, being supportive of you, taking your parents out, and for what? For you to decide to throw it all away for an orgasm or two?"

Brittany is hurt. "Of course not, Santana! I didn't plan this!" She attempts closeness, but Santana gets up, realizing how long it had actually taken for Brittany to reveal that information. It makes things worse, to have held, touched and cherished Brittany when she was fresh from her husband's.

"Then why did it take you so long to tell me? You let me take you into my house, you let me kiss you, you let me make you breakfast; and what for, Brittany, what for?" This is too much for Santana, whobput her marriage on the line for nothing. She had been willing to fight her husband to protect Brittany, she had been willing to do everything for Brittany, all this for nothing. "God, to think I kissed you and held you just after you and he-"

"Santana, please, don't-"

"Do you want to go back to him?" Santana dreads the answer, but she needs to hear it. Her hands are shaking, so she shoves them in her pockets. This conversation is sure making the rank of worst moments of her life, and she wants it to be over.

"No." Brittany comes closer, and this time Santana doesn't shove her away. "I don't want him, not even a tiny little bit." She sounds honest, and the way her voice is low and tentative soothes Santana's anger away for a while, leaving just the disappointment and the heartache.

"Maybe you're confused." Santana pauses and looks at the blonde. "Maybe it's time for you to leave. This case is closed."

Brittany nods, understanding what Santana is really trying to say, and gets her things to leave. Santana just watches her go.

* * *

Santana feels like crying, because this isn't fair at all. Her heart is breaking, physically aching, and she can't breathe. She can't breathe, her nose is going to start running any moment now and the tears filling her eyes might as well run down her cheeks also. She takes off her blazer and undoes two more buttons of her shirt, but it doesn't help her need for air in the slightest.

It's like being punched and kicked and her hands are trembling. She thinks to herself how ridiculous it is, to cry like a teenager over your ex. Images of John and Brittany together fill her mind, however, and she is breaking all over again. This time she isn't entitled to grieve; she isn't entitled to be miserable. She isn't entitled because Brittany doesn't belong to her – it's hard to grasp the concept, though, because there wasn't ever a time when Brittany hadn't belonged to her, and everything is new and awkward.

She realizes what a big mistake it was, allowing herself to be around her, allowing herself to be herself, not handing her case to any other lawyer, someone more informed, more adequate. She should have realized she wasn't ready to have Brittany without having Brittany, to keep on with separate lives and not have her own feelings betray herself. She should have know she would look forward to seeing the blonde, that she would go back to indulging her every wish just for the sake of it, that her heart would race faster when they touched, that they just didn't know how to be just friends. She should have known she needed distance.

She should have known that she can't take Brittany's love life as anything other than betrayal. She chokes on how hypocritical she is, making demands she herself doesn't fulfill. Hasn't it always been this way? She didn't want Brittany with Artie but she doesn't want to come out and be with her also; she wants Brittany to give up her life but doesn't want to give anything up; she feels possessive of Brittany but she herself is married to another – the list could go on for hours. It might as well be her eternal return, for it feels indeed horrid and heavy and absolutely cyclical.

She is selfish, ridiculous, and absurd. She wants what she can't have, and she doesn't know how to have Brittany as much as she doesn't know how to live without her. She hides her face in her hands, defeated. She has lost this game several times. Tears run down her cheeks as she tries to tell herself life will go on without Brittany. Life has continued before. The show must go on, she repeats to herself. The show must go on.

It's all she has been doing since the breakup: putting up a mask and running the show flawlessly. She has played the part to the point of becoming the part, and now she doesn't know what to do with herself. She doesn't know how to mend the distance between who she is and who she says she is. She doesn't know how to fit Brittany into her life, she doesn't know how to look at Alexander and not compare and not be premeditated. She sobs, because there have been few times in which she has felt this alone and this lost.


	8. Chapter 8

From: Quinn Fabray

Subject: A letter

To: Santana Lopez

_Santana,_

_I'm sorry it took me so long to reply to your e-mail. Truth is, I didn't know what to answer at first. You ask difficult questions, both about our past and our present, and I had to sit on it for a day before coming up with any answer at all._

_The first thing I think I should say is that Brittany was your first everything. You were childhood friends who watched each other grow up; you became lovers even before the both of you understood the implications of that; you got together officially because it was so intense and inevitable. She's your first love, she's the first person you ever promised forever to (or so you told me, on that New Year's Eve when the both of us were quite drunk)._

_You don't just forget your first love, Santana. And, in your case, you never learned to relate to Brittany in any other way. You were girlfriends, and then you weren't. Had you even spoken to her after the breakup before the divorce? Had you even looked at her? Your lives were so separate back then that I doubt it, if you allow me to speculate._

_It's no wonder everything feels out of place. You haven't figured everything out, and apparently you haven't gotten over her, or at least, not completely. You weren't the one who decided to end it. You were the one who waited for months in the vain hope that one day you would just wake up and figure out it had been a bad dream. (Yes, Santana, we bonded a lot that New Year's Eve)._

_Love,_

_Quinn_

* * *

Four weeks pass by and Santana becomes a mere resemblance of what she once was. She is at a dead end, trapped in a marriage she cannot stop questioning, tied to a person who ignores a huge part of who she is, living a life she envisioned without pondering the consequences. Days pass mechanically, one after the other, filled with activities and void of purpose. It's all an act; she's aware of it now. She has become the public figure, emptying herself of any true content.

But lies are heavy, as they demand more lying to cover the one previously told, as they demand a careful camouflage of feelings and perceptions and complete control of what should be natural reactions. So Santana feels heavy; an Atlas carrying the world to cope with her own deeds. Alexander looks at her, but he doesn't know how to reach out to her and she's too guilty of her own insincerity, for leading him on while lying to the both of them.

She is very good at lying to herself. She goes to work and she keeps on living and working and loving, because it is possible to perform the reality of it all without doing any of it. She laughs at the right jokes, works extra hours, watches the news and goes to dinners, but she knows Alexander knows something is wrong.

They are growing further apart by the minute and she isn't trying to stop it. It's not about fights or money or disappointment, because nothing concrete happens. It's about their silences, when there's no other soul but the two of them and the house feels too big. It's about Santana's laconic answers, short requests, and full compliance to his sayings. At the end of the first month, he suggests they could use some vacation time. Clear their heads and get a tan, or so he says. She agrees halfheartedly, and they settle for five days in Punta Del Este the following week.

* * *

From: Santana Lopez

Subject: A long delayed answer

To: Quinn Fabray

_Q,_

_I was hoping you wouldn't remember a lot about that night. For someone your size you can surely hold a lot of vodka._

_Unfortunately, I think your e-mail arrived a few hours too late. Brittany told me she slept with John (and that's why it took me a bit long to answer: I was trying to wrap my mind around it). It's over, then. I'm not her lawyer anymore. We will not be seeing each other._

_Except that I feel horrible like never before. If I am to rank it: coming out in high school, Brittany breaking up with me, and now this. Of course, I go to work, I have meetings, I laugh at jokes. If there's one thing you and I learned at a very young age, its how to keep up appearances. But it's not enough. I'm performing tasks like a robot. Nothing really matters._

_However, I'm perfectly aware that it makes no sense. I am married. My life has continued after Brittany. I built a career and a marriage. This is unfair to Alexander, who has been a life partner like few. He was jealous of Brittany and we did have our fights, but at the end of the day he's a good man and a good husband._

_I can't communicate with him. What could I tell him? He doesn't even know I wasn't always straight. He looks at me, expecting answers, but I can't bring myself to say anything. He holds me at night and he's so tall and larger than life sometimes, but that doesn't bring us closer. I think I might me imploding our marriage, which makes me feel even worse._

_I don't know what I'm doing anymore._

_S._

* * *

At first, Brittany gives Santana time. Both of them needed to clear their heads and sort things out. She doesn't hear a word from Santana, and she dreams sometimes about that night, about the fight with Santana, about their first break up. Santana is all over her, impregnating her skin, her brain, her dreams.

In the second week, Brittany tries to contact Santana. Text messages, phone calls, voice mail; she did everything she could, but not a word has been heard in return for another four weeks. It drives her mad, because she isn't ready to accept that the case is closed and she is not ready to move on. She wants Santana, in any way, under any conditions. Friendship, courtship, marriage, she doesn't care.

She doesn't look for another lawyer. Instead, she packs; donating, selling or simply throwing away half of her belongings as the other half find its way into brown boxes that cluster her apartment. It takes her three weeks to do it and when their first month apart comes to an end, she has no furniture. She stops calling, too. Her tactic is obviously not working, so she needs to think of something else.

She starts looking for a new place. It's never a conscious decision, at any point. She wanted to pack, and then she wanted out. She starts getting paid by Jim – or, better said, with Jim, who starts calling her "partner". She had trained him when he was the weakest dancer, and the good karma seemed to be going right back at her. They had dancers now, and choreography, and production was starting at full speed.

She settles for a studio with plenty of space for dancing and almost no furniture. The bed is old and big, dark wood and memories from its previous owners. Brittany is in love with it. She spends the fifth week working on a single wall, putting up photos and posters. The result is beautiful, with all her favorite singers and dancers mingled with photos of her life, in bigger and smaller sizes. Santana is all over it.

* * *

From: Quinn Fabray

Subject: Hard questions to ask, few answers to give

To: Santana Lopez

_Darling,_

_Let's not do this. You "weren't always straight"? You are a lesbian. Being straight is probably better for your social status and professional standing, but I have known you for two and a half decades. Do not lie to me._

_I worry about you, you know. I've watched you retreat into straighthood and play the game, after you were fired and especially after Brittany broke up with you. I can still remember you in college, the hottest lesbian in Law School, as comfortable in plaid and boots as in a dress and heels; loving to show off Brittany, because she was your girlfriend and you were so proud of just being with her._

_So I worry and I wonder about you with your big house, handsome husband, and thrilling career. You seem to forget that Brittany is free to have sex with whomever she so desires and it is not up to you to make demands on the subject. You can't claim her anymore._

_You can't change the past, Santana. Is this thing you're feeling worth throwing away a marriage and turning your life upside down? Is it nostalgia? Do you even know who Brittany is today or are you projecting an image of who she was over a decade ago?_

_Much love,_

_Quinn._

_PS: I'm pregnant._ _Finally._

* * *

Santana and Alexander go on vacation on the fifth week. Punta Del Este is lovely, and Uruguay does have a strong European trait to it. The people are beautiful and they are tourists with enough money to afford a perfect stay anywhere. Alexander and she go running every morning on the beach, taking in the impressive skyline and the smell of sand and salt, getting back to the hotel in time for breakfast.

Mornings are spent tanning and napping. Lunch is always at a different restaurant, and the food is often orgasmic. They walk through town and do some shopping at the end of the day, stopping to watch the sunset on the beach and toast. Alexander sits right behind her, arm on her waist and chin on the top of her head. They enjoy those moments in silence

She drinks more than she should, some days. She's not driving and she doesn't have to work the next day, she rationalizes. The inebriation feels good, for a change. She's building her walls and blocking the world out, again, and the absence of feelings is only broken with wine or champagne or even beer, if it's hot outside. She's arid, and her marriage might be crumbling because of it. She feels empty, and she cannot give Alexander what he is demanding.

At the hotel, they meet an English couple that goes out with them every once in a while. The man is short and thoughtful, the wife is tall and outspoken and the four of them share an appreciation for Uruguayan wine that bonds them together. He's a professor, she sells real state and they plan on adopting a baby, maybe two.

It feels lighter, but insufficient. She does get a nice tan, though, and it earns her a few compliments when she's back to the office.

* * *

From: Santana Lopez

Subject: Not even a letter, this time

To: Quinn Fabray

_Quinn,_

_I wish I had the answers to your questions._

_Santana_

_PS: OH MY DEAR GOD. A BABY! I'M CALLING YOU RIGHT NOW._

* * *

During the sixth week, Brittany discovers an inner strength she didn't know she had. She leaves John a message saying she wants to sell her share of the studio. That's what she needs, a clean slate and freedom to maneuver. It feels right. She should be focusing on the show, also, that would have its opening very soon. She doesn't want to follow the same old patterns, missing John in every broken routine.

He wants explanations and confrontations, and Brittany has to swallow her fears when she doesn't give in. It's night, late at night, and he is at the studio, because someone must have told him she was going to pass by. She sighs and hesitates for a moment, but a moment like this was bound to happen. "What are you doing?" He asks, looking at her like she's crazy. It gets under her skin, because he seemed ready to accept her opinion only and if she agreed with him. She thinks to herself how she was taught to do better than this.

"I'm leaving, John. It would be nice if you let me go." She answers honestly, getting the last of her things and placing it inside a bag. "I'm tired of it. Of this." She gestures to the both of them. "I don't want to see you anymore. I don't want to teach here anymore." She wants out and silently begs him to understand. She's been in a limbo for too long. Not married, not divorced. Her life has been paused for months now. It's time to hit resume, and keep going.

"Brittany, this is crazy-" He tries to say, but she doesn't let him. This is not the time for him to speak. This time, John has to listen. He is refusing to take in what she wants to say. She deserves better than this.

"No, it isn't. We are over, John. There is nothing between us, and that one moment we had sex did not mean anything." She's looking straight into his eyes. She had avoided him for weeks. She had not answered his calls. She had runaway to somebody else that night and let it very clear she did not want to discuss that lapse. He had looked for her and she had told him it didn't mean anything.

"I'm not giving up on us." He says, taking a few steps in their direction. He looks desperate and clueless. "I thought we were understanding each other, and the divorce-" He's doing everything wrong, all over again. He doesn't get it. Still, he closed his eyes to all that, in the hope he could get her back.

"No! You gave up when you cheated!" She loses control and speaks louder. "God, John. I will not forgive you. You broke us, and that is it." There's a long silence. "If you don't sign the papers, I will divorce you anyway." When the words leave her mouth, she can't believe she said them. She's holding back the tears already.

"Brittany..." He tries. She can barely look at him.

"I don't love you anymore, John. Let me go." He looks at her with an unreadable expression and leaves. She cries as soon as the door closes.

* * *

From: Quinn Fabray

Subject: Questions, questions, questions.

To: Santana Lopez

_Santana,_

_Don't be a stranger. How are you holding up? Have you seen Brittany again? How's Alexander?_

_You shouldn't make a pregnant woman worry so much._

_Love,_

_Quinn_

* * *

Santana and Alexander start couple therapy during the eighth week, because something was obviously wrong and they weren't able to fix it. _You're wrong, Santana_ , is what Santana feels like Alexander is saying when he comes up with the idea. Their therapist is a redheaded lady probably in her forties who has a great taste in shoes and looks at Santana like she can see right through her, and Santana feels naked and vulnerable.

Alexander starts by saying he doesn't know what suddenly became wrong and finishes by saying he loves Santana. Santana starts by saying they were growing further apart by the minute and finishes by saying she doesn't know what to do. He says they tried taking some vacation time, but that he is not sure how much that worked. She stresses it doesn't get in the way of their work, and things at the office are running smoothly. He says he has felt it for months.

Sessions come and go and Santana doesn't feel they're going forward, but she says nothing about it. She wants it to work. She wants to go back to normal.

Brittany becomes a topic eventually. Alexander, by his own initiative, starts babbling his nonsense and his jealousy, and for a few minutes Santana is paralyzed. He says he noticed Santana changing. He says he doesn't understand. He talks about the recklessness of her, to take that case when the wise thing to do would be to hand it over, and about the constant refusal to let Brittany become a subject of any critic or discussion. She says she is not going to discuss Brittany, at all, and tries to ignore his _I told you so_ face.

It's the sixteenth week and she's at a one-on-one session with the therapist when progress is finally made. She's exhausted, she had a long week and she is so tired of never being able to voice out loud her own fears and she misses Quinn, but she is in San Francisco being amazing and Santana was never good at reaching out to people or even making friends to reach out to, in the first place. She doesn't want to disturb and worry Quinn any more than she already does.

"I feel empty. I'm ruining this marriage because I knew what I was doing and the decisions I was making and now I'm not anymore, you know? I'm pushing him away and he doesn't have the slightest clue of what is going on, the poor thing. He married the wrong woman. He married a projection of me without knowing. It's not his fault, at all, because I worked so hard to create this, this image and live up to it. But I feel empty, and it's not working anymore. I have no bigger goals, nothing to aim for. I think I lost myself somewhere before. I feel wrong because I _am_ wrong, I am living the most fundamental lie and no one knows about it." She says, at once, without looking at her therapist, empty eyes focusing on the wall by her side. "I wake up and I think, what for? I look to my side, see Alexander, and I don't know what I feel besides the guilt for leading him on, for taking him into my own personal act."

She refuses to dwell on her alleged lie. The therapist increases the number of one-on-one sessions.

* * *

From: Santana Lopez

Subject: It's not fair to use pregnancy as blackmail, you know

To: Quinn Fabray

_Quinn,_

_I might be cracking, I don't know. Alexander suggested we started therapy and I agreed. I didn't know what else to say, but at least we are trying. It isn't working out so well, truth be told. I can't say what's important in front of Alexander. What am I supposed to say to my husband? Hello there, Brittany is my ex-lover and I'm probably a lesbian?_

_We went on vacation a few weeks ago. Had I told you that? We had a nice time in Punta. It just felt like it wasn't with the right person. He's so manly and big and he loves me and I sometimes think I love him back. But it doesn't last long, and I'm back to feeling lost in no time._

_I think I'm cracking. I said some things I shouldn't have to the therapist yesterday. I didn't mention Brittany or being gay, of course. But I did tell her how I feel. It felt good, getting it out there. Liberating, even. But I can't tell her everything._

_Love,_

_Santana._

_PS: This life is what I envisioned. Maybe I should have envisioned something else._

_PPS: Not that I'll ever admit it out loud, but I miss you sometimes._

* * *

Brittany paces in front of the door, holding a brown envelope in her hands. It's the end of the day – she planned it, being the last appointment of the day, having less people around to eavesdrop anything. They used to say she's stupid, but she has proven them wrong once more, elaborating a scheme all on her own. Her stomach turns in anticipation and anxiety, because her gut feeling tells her this is it and her gut feeling never fails her.

Her mind divagates. John tells her he needs time, but he accepts and signs the papers eventually. His big eyes of sorrow and regret never leave his face, but he lets her go. They have been working on a way to solve their financial situation. He doesn't have the money to buy her share of their studio at once, but Brittany is in no rush. Little by little, things are falling into the right place. She needs, however, to work one more thing out before she can feel she is moving forward: Santana. This is the fifth month they are going without talking to each other and there is too much that's been left unsaid, for her to leave it at that.

She enters the office. The secretary nods at her and tells her to enter. Her heart is beating fast, her hands are sweaty and she can barely breathe. Santana is reading some papers, beautiful as always. Brittany clears her throat. "There you go. He signed the papers." She closes the door, takes a few steps forward and leaves the envelope at her desk. Santana just looks at her like she's seeing a ghost. Her pen leaves her hand and falls with a soft thud on the files she was reading. "I miss you." Brittany offers her before she can think of what she's saying.

Santana opens the envelope and looks the papers John had once rejected. She checks them one by one slowly. She looks at Brittany again, but doesn't invite her to sit. She sighs. "I'll take care of it." Her index finger runs over the sheets. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, until she finally finds her words. "But let's not do this."

Brittany had this coming. Old habits die hard, and Santana is so very often one for denial and running away when it comes to her personal life. "You're the one walking away this time, Santana. We're even." She broke it off, once. Now Santana was the one to put an end to them. What goes around, comes back around, she thinks sadly. It's all about balance, in the grand scheme of things.

Santana's eyes become hard and she gets up. They are eye to eye now. "Do not fucking accuse me of that, Brittany Susan Pierce. Do not." She's using a calm, low tone that feels more like a threat and the use of Brittany's full name is a testament of how deep the accusation has stung.

"I can say whatever I want, Santana." She answers, not giving in and not losing her temper. "I miss you and you're pushing me away." She said it; she actually voiced that thought. "We caused each other enough pain already." They had done so much wrong to each other, so many times. Santana, however strong she might look to the general eye, was so vulnerable and fragile at times.

Santana shakes her head. "It's too hard. I rebuilt my life without you, Brittany." There she goes, building up her walls once again. Brittany has seen this before.

"That's not what I'm talking about." She says, calm and soothing.

"It is exactly what we're talking about." Santana answers at once, almost aggressively. "You're making my head a mess all over again." She looks at Brittany in pain and Brittany could touch her if she wanted to, but she's frozen in her place. "Let's not do this. You left me, I survived. End of story." Except the story doesn't end there. There was so much more to it it's nearly insincere of Santana to sum it up like this.

"I'm not the bad guy." Their breakup was the recognition of a relationship long lost and buried. "I only said what the both of us thought."

Santana raises the tone of her voice. "Don't tell me what I was thinking, back then." Her voice breaks for a second. "Being without you was the last thing on my mind." Santana still remembers the months after that: the void in her eyes, the overwhelming loneliness that came from being ripped apart from your most basic aspiration, the moments in which she felt like sharing something with a person who was no longer around, the acute sensation of being doomed to be alone and the permanent wonder of where had they exactly lost themselves. The lack of answers.

Brittany is not willing to take the part of the villain in this act. She has suffered, too. "And still, I was a stranger among your friends, completely apart from everything in your life. You shut me away." It felt so horrible to watch your girlfriend live a life without you in it, a life in which you could hope to be nothing but a spectator. She was growing and changing in front of Brittany's eyes, turning into a stranger. The plans she was making didn't seem to include Brittany.

Santana's brow furrows in indignation. What did Brittany expect of her? To sit around and wait for the day the love of her life returned? It was not fair. She had a life to live while Brittany was away, a career to pursue. "I'm sorry, but you were never around! You can't just spend months and months away and come back for a few weeks and expect to know everything about me."

It's like a slap to Brittany's face. The guilt of always being the one to leave she carried already. "I had a career to build and you agreed to that, Santana."

"I tried to understand, but all I could do was to miss you." Santana doesn't even care anymore if anyone's listening. All this unresolved water under the bridge brings to surface her unplanned sincerity, the chronological distance being an enabler for her to talk openly. "Your travels broke me, Britt." It's one of her biggest truths among their mess. She doesn't mean to credit all the blame to Brittany, but Santana could never deal with the distance. "I couldn't pull myself together and I was by myself during some of the most important moments in my life."

Brittany is aware of it, even if Santana thinks she isn't. The opposite, however, also holds true. "Have you ever stopped to think you weren't there for me, too? Traveling with people I barely knew, struggling so hard, and I couldn't even count on you."

"Of course you could count on me! I would do anything for you." If Santana complied with Brittany's wishes, it was because Brittany's happiness always came first. She was Brittany's biggest fan from her first dance presentation when they were kids. Her eyes fill with a bitter sadness, as this is the when she can't deny incurring such pain. She was never able to regain the trust she had lost. "I'm sorry I didn't make that clear at all times."

"You cheated on me, Santana." It's such a hard confession to acknowledge. Imagining Santana touching another woman remained a painful memory, haunting her in dreams for endless months afterwards. Another woman mapping Santana's body, claiming Santana like her own. The Santana Ballet was sometimes unstable and unreliable - one step forward, two steps back.

Santana bites her lower lip as she holds back the tears. It would always come back to it, wouldn't it? "I was drunk and foolish, and I recognize my mistake." It's almost a whisper. _Mea culpa._ She had gone to a party, and gotten wasted. She was going on without sex for four months and she needed Brittany so much it hurt. She let herself go and ended up having sex with a random girl. The realization of what she had done the next day made her vomit. She called Brittany that very day and told her what had happened. "I tried everything I could to make up for it. But I never could, could I Britt?"

They were so young. They had tried to mend it, but Brittany couldn't forget and Santana could not forgive herself. A permanent weight had been placed, as much as they avoided the subject. "No, Santana, you never could."

"And then we turned into something we were not." Santana finishes their story and her eyes meet Brittany's. A long silence falls.

"I loved you so much, San. More than I ever loved anyone my entire life." Every person on Earth faded in comparison to Santana. Santana was bigger, braver, tougher, more intelligent, more beautiful, more fascinating.

Santana smiles the tiniest bit. "I loved you too, Britt-Britt. More thananything." Even at that moment, when she was supposed to feel nothing, Brittany made her heart race and her breath catch. Brittany made her laugh, made life lighter and more bearable. She gave Santana courage and purpose. "I'm sorry for everything."

"I'm sorry, too."


	9. Chapter 9

There is nothing left to say, absolutely nothing. Brittany looks at Santana, at this new and strange version of _her_ Santana, and now that it's out in the open and apologies have been issued there is nothing left to say, absolutely nothing. Forgive me, Santana, for I have sinned, she wants to say but she doesn't. She just stares at Santana, defeated and deflated, a heavy uncertainty between the two of them. Brittany feels foreign, foreign in that office with its wooden tables and impersonal decoration, because she knew Santana before that and because she herself is light and humble, and this is not her, either.

It's Brittany who breaks the silence. "Look at us, Santana. Look at our state on a Thursday night." She gestures between them and their miserable state. "I want to have you in my life. I miss you." There's another long pause, used by each to wipe off the tears on the verge of falling. "Let's do something different." She's sick of their baggage, she's smothered by everything said and done and all the things she could have done better. "Let's always be honest and straight forward, and let's start new."

Brittany waits for an answer and hopes Santana is ready for it. She knows it's a bet, because Santana closes herself off as a means of protection. However she doesn't want to lose Santana, and her laugh and her company and the assurance she represents. They're bonded to each other, it's an easy recognition, and they just have to find out where they stand and where their boundaries lie. "Okay." Santana says, and Brittany lets out a breath she hadn't even known she was holding. "Let's just... take it slow, okay?"

Brittany agrees and holds out a hand. "I'm already looking forward to it." She says as she shakes Santana's hand. "It's a deal." Santana manages a weak smile, and Brittany thinks she's such a pretty thing. "We just need a little adjustment, that's all." She adds, full of hope and longing.

* * *

 

Santana can't seem to forget the fortune teller. That unknown woman was the closing she had been dreading to accept back then, the vocalization of her personal ghosts and insecurities. The gypsy had taken the words of Santana's mouth without even knowing it, even if Santana is a skeptic before anything else and doesn't believe in anything magical, superstitious or unexplained. In her eyes, there's only hard, cold reality, and there's no point in covering it up with mysticism.

However, the woman does touch her where it hurts. It is a vague feeling of failure and loneliness, of having loved and lost. Santana is not one to surrender herself to another person -- Brittany is the only exception to that rule. Love is defeat, is throwing yourself at someone's feet in all your vulnerability and hoping for the best. Santana's image of herself has no space for weakness or romanticism. The way to succeed is to draw a plan, stick to it and be smart enough to see an opportunity and make the best of it. This notion that she has, that Brittany was the love of her life, however incongruent with her own image and her life philosophy, never really fades away.

She can't help it. Her argument with Brittany still takes her breath away and she keeps making vague and sincere confessions to the therapist whenever her husband isn't around with his prying eyes. It's an unforgiving reflex of having so much unsaid and unfelt and compartmentalized. She's opened a gate she can't close it back.

She looks at Alexander at times, when he's asleep and she's turning around in bed in the vain hope of getting some rest, and she wonders if he knows this is a lost battle for him. She loves, respects and admires him, but he has never gotten anywhere close to the intensity and desperation, that loving Brittany always was. She chose him among all persons but he was never, not even for a fleeting moment, the love of her life.

* * *

 

"I have something to say." Santana says solemnly to the room, looking at no one in particular. Alexander is by her side, in a gorgeous navy blue suit tailored for him. The therapist sits in front of them, legs elegantly crossed, and looks at her. "Something I have not said before." She can't stand it anymore, she's not used to this weight on her, to this loneliness of not being able to share her thoughts with the man she's supposed to be sharing her life with, this forced silence not even her therapist manages to break. "Something important." She breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, breathes out, and opens her mouth several times before continuing. There are no right words to find. "Brittany and I, we're not just old friends. We were friends, once, and we are first and foremost best friends, of course, ever since the day I gave her my crayons when we were 6." She clears her throat. "But the story doesn't stop there. We were together for a decade, more or less. Together as in a romantic, lesbian relationship."

It's out now. She can't take it back, and she's terrified. She looks at Alexander for the first time since she started talking and his face and blank and void and the therapist eyebrows are raised in surprise. "What are you trying to say, Santana?" His lips are forming a thin line and his breathing is so even Santana can tell a storm is on the brewing. "That you are gay? That you are having an affair?" He's as implacable as her, and that works for good and for evil. He's not stopping now. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"Let's take it slow, Alexander, and not jump to conclusions. Why are you telling this now, Santana?" Her therapist asks slowly, with a powerful stare to Alexander to hold him back.

"I don't know." Santana answers. "I feel it is a big part of me I have to share. Brittany's return, it..." She searches for a way to express herself properly. "It reminded me of a moment in my life previous to my marriage, and the person I used to be. It's hard for me to look past that, sometimes." Brittany is a reminder of a moment in her life when she lived the life she loved and she loved the life she lived, and that was hard to forget.

"Oh, so you're having a miserable life with me and prefer the nostalgia of your lesbian relationship?" Alexander asks, and he's getting it all wrong, and they always get it all wrong. Santana hates to open up because it's pointless and meaningless, because all human communication is bound to be imperfect. Santana doesn't know what to answer to that. "Are you a lesbian?"

Santana doesn't even know anymore. "I'm not a big fan of labels. They generally acquire an exaggerated importance and meaning beyond their original ones." It might be a fancy way to say yes, she thinks. But one thing a woman doesn't tell her husband is that her sexual orientation in quite the opposite of what he imagines it to be, especially Alexander, who's straight as an arrow. "I was with boys until I was with girls until I was with boys again, and that's it."

"I believe Alexander is feeling quite insecure with this new situation, Santana. Do you think your relationship with Brittany has affected your marriage somehow?" Her therapist asks before Alexander can react.

"I just don't know what I'm doing anymore." She admits in defeat. "Of course I love Alexander, it's just...  Nothing fulfills me." She hopes one of them will understand it; the void feeling of having nothing to look forward to, the emptiness of an envisioned perfection, the superficiality of her own life plan. She hopes one of them understands how bad it feels not being comfortable in your own skin and not feeling satisfied with anything. "My work, my life, it doesn't click anymore." Had it always been this way? Had life always been this way, and had she just never noticed? She was starting to forget. "I'm really sorry, Alexander."

He's not used to see her fragile and defenseless. Santana looks to him and his shoulders are less tense and his expression has softened. "I love you, Santana Lopez." He places a hand over hers. "And I'm not giving up on you." Santana doesn't know whether to be relieved or afraid of that.

* * *

 

Brittany's dancers are almost reaching the point of perfection.  Their project isn't too big, but it is a start and everyone is very excited about it, gossiping during breaks, anxiety growing with each week. Brittany remembers what it feels to be young and beginning a career, hoping anything could be _the_ break. She's working hard at it, never complaining about long hours or stubborn dancers. Working with Jim has been amazing, with his witty and funny attitude and his obvious queerness. He has a good eye for people and investments and he loves to surround himself with talent and beauty. That has always impressed Brittany: he knows what to do and with whom to do it.

Tonight is the opening night. Brittany bought a few seats for her friends and an extra one just in case Santana would show up. Not that there's any real chance of that, as Brittany has been silent about this and Santana has no way of guessing. Brittany hasn't invited her because who knows if it is appropriate or not, and she is trying to take things slow. Still, she can picture Santana by her side with her supportive and caring words, and that has to be enough.

Jim tells her there are two critics in the audience. Brittany knows she is just one in many who had worked for the performance and that her job is a part of a much bigger scenario; however, it is hard to avoid the feeling on her stomach of responsibility and nervousness. She choreographed and trained those young men and women -- if they fail, she fails as well.

Her parents are there, her mother in a black dress and her father in a suit. They wouldn't miss it for anything; one thing her parents are great in is in taking part and showing their support, even if Brittany is in her late thirties and could have done this on her own. They sit on the first row, intensely focused, even when they don't quite understand all this "modern dancing", as they call it.

The curtains go up. It is a renewed feeling, the one to be before an audience, when all the training has to pay off, and there's no space for mistakes. Brittany had loved it, in the past. The excitement that preceded entering the stage and focusing so hard there was no space for wondering minds or anxiety. Jim squeezes her hand and they lock eyes with every dancer entering the stage as the music begins to play.

* * *

 

They're at a park on a Saturday afternoon. Santana likes parks because they are relatively neutral: a park is not the heavy atmosphere of their workplaces, or the intimacy of their homes, or the public and exposed setting of a restaurant. Truth be said, they remind her of Law School, when Brittany and her would hang out in places like these on weekends, just enjoying each other's company. It was for free, and their tight budget didn't make room for much back then.

It's the first time they're alone since the last time they were alone, and Santana knows their previous conversation is far from over. She has important questions that are yet to be answered before she can really move on. "Brittany, I called you here because I need to ask you something." She clears her throat and plays with her cup of iced coffee. "Have you ever forgiven me for... you know?" _Cheating_ , she would say if she had the courage.

Brittany frowns and covers Santana's hand with her own, head turning so they could look into each other's eyes. "Yes, with time." She says without hesitating.  "I wasn't being a good girlfriend." There's a long pause, in which Santana looks at her and Brittany looks at two dogs playing nearby. Santana's heart is racing. She's used to Brittany's lack of talent at lying, but not to this complete sincerity -- or maybe, she has just forgotten what it feels to really talk with Brittany, like they used to before things started going in the wrong direction. There was so much left unsaid in the end. "Did you ever forgive me for leaving you so many times?" Brittany looks to Santana again, blinking away a few tears.

God, they were young. Santana shakes her head, her voice trembling a bit. "I never blamed you, Britt. I never could. You were doing your thing, putting yourself first and building something wonderful for yourself. I just felt like a weight." How could she ever blame anything on Brittany? Her girlfriend was amazing in every way. Her hand goes to Brittany's hair, pushing a stubborn lock from her face. "I kept trying to guess what I was doing wrong, or what I could do better." There was never any blame to give Brittany; that was a weight Santana herself could carry. Santana had been the one to push her away first, in high school; it would make sense Brittany would be the one to push her away in the end.

Brittany is indignant, in a way. It made no sense at all for Santana to blame herself, and Brittany was absurdly unaware of that feeling. "You weren't doing anything wrong." She doesn't even know what to add to that. It wasn't a matter of doing right or wrong. Santana was always trying her best, always attentive to Brittany's wishes and needs. Brittany's heart clenches with the look in the other woman’s eyes. She intertwines their fingers to prove a point that is maybe too old to be proved.

Santana nods and shrugs, looking at their hands before breaking the contact. It doesn't matter anymore. "It felt like it." And then, of course, she did it wrong, she made the unforgivable mistake, and hell broke loose. They had stubbornly insisted in a relationship that just could not have continued the way it was. Santana never understood, how a relationship so full of love could have ended like that. "To be honest, I wish I could have loved you better. You deserved more." Santana says, because it is in a way the origin of their problems. But she was so afraid, so clumsy, so immature at first it just couldn't be helped. Brittany was always the bigger person, the stronger person, so many times it was unfair.

"We were so young, San. And stupid." It's an admission that works both ways. She remembers a Santana so broken, only getting more fragile with each time Brittany left on tour and it pained her she couldn't have done anything back then to ease the pain. She remembers high school with their closet issues and her choice for Artie. Santana understands it too, all their misdirections and misgivings, and briefly squeezes Brittany's shoulder. Brittany shakes her head, thumb stroking Santana's face. "We all make mistakes. I kept choosing other things over you. Artie, dancing, my career." She stopped showing Santana she mattered. She emotionally left their relationship long before their actual break up.

Santana sighs. "I went to Europe, you know. Right after the..." She stops herself, because mentioning their break up is a taboo she is not willing to verbalize. "To get you back." She still dreams about it, about going to Europe in some impressive move to get her girl back and failing miserably at it. She dreams about the nervousness in arriving, the surreal sensation of buying a ticket to see Brittany perform in the hope of understanding and to feel closer to her. She wanted to be supportive; she wanted to be strong for Brittany.

"I never knew that." Brittany frowns. This is unexpected and new. Why hadn't Santana ever said anything?

"It seemed like a great idea at the time. I needed to look at you in person, to talk to you face to face, so we could settle things and go back to being great together." Santana is crying quietly. "I never told anyone. I watched you perform and you left me speechless." She pauses and wipes her own tears. "But then as you left the place you were laughing so hard, having fun and John was playing with you. I felt like I didn't belong. Who was I to claim you, anyway?" Santana laughs sadly with the thought she was just a crazy ex-girlfriend. "So I left. Someone out there was meant to love you better. I clearly wasn't doing a good job at that." She had to set Brittany free. They weren't good for each other, not anymore.

And there was the gypsy, taking her hand and revealing her fate in the worst possible of manners.  Your love line means you'll have just one great love, she said. And the woman had been right; there had never been anyone like Brittany, ever. Time doesn't heal, it just makes you take your mind off of the pain, the gypsy had said right before apologizing, because Santana deserved her pity. Santana just walked, and cried, and how distant it was from the movies, and how wrong it was to be walking through the streets of Paris, the city of romance, with your heart broken?

Brittany is on the verge of tears as well. She's fascinated by this Santana, mesmerized and touched by the entire conversation. "Silly." She says, cupping Santana's face and locking their eyes. "Silly." She repeats and kisses Santana's eyes, Santana's forehead, Santana's chin and Santana’s wet cheeks.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Santana reaches for her lighter. It is a beautiful piece, silver and elegant, with her father's initials engraved on it. He did not know that, 10 years earlier, she couldn't resist the temptation of taking it with her back to New York after vising her family for Christmas. She knew she wouldn't be a suspect: her family was far from imagining that their little girl was a casual smoker. She stares at it with a sense of pride, for having successfully stolen it and for it being the only item that served as a token of her old, authoritative father.

She lights up a cigar -- a good one, Cuban, as she is no woman to have it cheap -- and savors it. She takes a long drag, observing the smoke as it rises in the air. Smoking has always been a transgressive act, as much as it meant time for pondering. She's alone, because she always smokes alone; Brittany and Alexander both hate it.

Her phone buzzes, disturbing her peace. She doesn't have to look at it to know it's Alexander. Where are you, Santana, what are you doing, Santana, you should be home, Santana, how come you're doing something without my knowledge, Santana, does it mean you're cheating on me with that woman, Santana, Santana, Santana, Santana.... She turns her phone off with her free hand, not slightly interested in picking up.

One more drag and she closes her eyes. Her therapist's voice echoes in her head: why did you let yourself lose control over your own life? She never answered it, of course. How does one answer a question like that? She thinks and thinks, but no conclusion is reached. Another drag. She knows she's getting to a breaking point of some sort. She knows she needs to make something out of it.

Alexander is pushing. He is worried, unsettled, questioning. He is overwhelming with his lack of trust and he has become offensive with his subtle homophobia. She looks around in the dim light, eyes stopping at his picture. He's handsome and heteronormative, invalidating her relationship with Brittany as experimenting. Their marriage was her return to normalcy, because she had always belonged in heteroville. One more drag and nicotine fills her lungs. She's taking it all in quietly; very aware that the moment she talks back a small domestic war will break out.

She wonders if there is any chance they could find each other again, reach some kind of balance once more. They had degenerated into pure appearances, saving their marriage only for the general public’s eye. She wonders if she will have the courage to end things, if necessary. They had a house, investments, a law firm together. Their lives were tangled, for better or for worse. She sighs.

Another drag. Smoking is soothing, and she slowly returns to a calmer state. Her father-in-law wouldn't be pleased if he knew what was going on. Alexander came from a long line of lawyers; his place in Harvard Law was well secured long before he was born. Their law firm belonged to his father before him, and to his grandfather before his father. His family had been in the business for at least 150 years, from what Santana could recall. Their success and high earnings should be credited to a successful past as much as their own merits. Alexander I, the great patriarch, was retired, but still had power over the firm. Santana had to prove herself several times -- she was an unexpected wife, a Latina with a middle class upbringing refusing to settle as a housewife -- but it was unlikely she would remain in the firm if anything happened.

Separation implies unemployment, she thinks bitterly before putting out her cigar.

* * *

 

When the curtains close for the last time and applause breaks out, Brittany and Jim hug each other in excitement. The dancers soon drift towards them, hugging and laughing as well. All the work, all the training, it had paid off. The critics had been receptive, and compliments surpassed complaints; the audience had been nearly full most nights; and there were no major mistakes on stage. Brittany's smile betrays a certainty that things were starting to work out for the best in her life.

A bouquet of lilies arrives and the entire crew gathers around her in curiosity. Brittany accepts it, confused, hoping it wasn't some random guy trying to get into her pants. There is a note, however, that says: _You are much more graceful than your lead dancer. Still, congratulations._ It isn't signed, but she can recognize that handwriting anywhere. She opens the curtains to have a look at the rustling of the audience leaving, and recognizes Santana for a moment. Was she really there? Was she not imagining things? It wouldn't be the first time she had thought she saw that familiar face among the crowd only to be disappointed seconds later. Still, she goes to the exit as soon as she can.

"Santana?" She calls out, searching. Much to her surprise, Santana turns, standing out in a beautiful red dress. Brittany's heart races out of astonishment caused by Santana's attendance. How had she known? Had she liked it? Oh God, what if she hadn't? Brittany offers a hand for Santana to take and leads them back inside.

"You weren't supposed to find me." She says, and if she weren’t Santana Lopez, Brittany would say she's looking shy. "It was great." She had imagined this conversation, Santana's reaction to the performance, Santana's opinion on this and that. Back in the day, Santana would watch her performances and attend every rehearsal she could manage, the perfect incarnation of the supportive girlfriend, accumulating a knowledge most people wouldn't expect. "I'm proud." Brittany beams with the best feedback she could hope to get, hands still lingering in Santana's grasp for a few more moments until she realizes what she's doing and lets go.

"Is this the famous Santana Lopez?" Jim cuts in, a hand on Brittany's shoulder as he offers his other hand to greet Santana. Santana nods and shakes the hand firmly, like she was taught to. "It's a pleasure." He adds with a smile. There's a hint of something in Santana's eyes Brittany can't quite put her finger on.

"I hope you heard nothing but good things." Santana says, as charming as she knows how to be, and as she engages in a conversation with Jim about the performance, it takes no time for Brittany to see how easily Santana wins him over. Brittany smiles when they start to talk about her, all compliments and teasing. Her eyes never leave Santana's, watching her every reaction, her every smile, searching for signs of insincerity or annoyance that never surface, not during the conversation, not even when the dancers come and Jim asks her to go out celebrating with their pack and she agrees.

"Thank you." She whispers to Santana's ear hours later, when they're all stuffed with food and wine and feeling on top of the world. "For everything." Santana looks at her with hazy eyes and a lazy smile from one too many glasses, and holds her hand. Brittany smiles too, feeling warm over everything that’s been handed to her lately, for Jim, for the dancers, for Santana, for joining everyone in the same table and having the interaction run as smoothly as possible, for those parts of her life coming together effortlessly.

They are disturbed before Santana can say anything. "You guys make such a cute couple." Her second lead makes the comment out of the blue, after watching Brittany and Santana's interaction. Her cheeks are red and she obviously wouldn't have the guts to say so if the setting was different from the drunken haze of a bar. Brittany bites her lower lip, heart pacing faster and faster in the expectation of hearing Santana's response. Would it be positive, negative, would it end up working as a set back to how far they had gone, to how much they had achieved in the re-building of their relationship?

The answer ends up being surprising.

"Yeah, we always did, ever since our hot cheerleader days." Santana says, winking at Brittany and placing a stray of blond hair behind her ear. "But that was a long time ago." She adds, showing the enormous gold ring on her finger. "And now I am happily married to someone else." Brittany can't interpret the tone of Santana's voice -- whether she was hiding her feelings or there was too much alcohol in her blood, she wouldn't know. The dancer turns an even darker shade of red, if that was possible, mumbling something incoherent as an apology and looking as awkward as ever. "Breathe." Santana commands, holding her gaze. "People have assumed that ever since we were teenagers. Let's just forget it, shall we?"

* * *

 

Brittany walks alongside Santana as they head to Brittany's place with the lame excuse that it's closer and more convenient. Brittany mulls over a multitude of things as a comfortable silence falls and there is no noise except birds singing to announce another day and the hum of the car engine. Brittany wonders why Santana had asked to sleep at her place at the end of their night out, just before the sun began to rise, and why Santana had turned off her phone when it started ringing.

Brittany thinks about Santana's mysterious answer, about her "happily married" and how her eyes grew soft at the mention of them as a couple. She's not fooling her, of all people, with her determination to take things normally; they are nothing but normal, nothing but ordinary, and their past is still a sore spot, no matter which façade she decides to put on. There's a tension in her shoulders and a stiffness to her posture that betray her high levels of stress and Brittany doesn't think it is all professional. Santana's resolution to go out and enjoy the night until everyone went home had a layer to it that she couldn't decipher. But she wasn't going to ask in front of several other people, so she let it go and embraced Santana's thirst for wine and Santana's laugh and how good it felt to be around her and have fun without the reminder of their baggage.

Santana chooses that moment to look at her and smile. "I had fun tonight." Brittany smiles back and nods in agreement. "We should do it more often." She says, staring at the ground. Their hands are touching casually, making Brittany want to hold Santana's hand in hers. It's forbidden, and it's too much too fast, so she just bites her lower lip and refrains from it. "It's not something I do very often." She mumbles, but Brittany hears it.

"Why? What’s wrong?" She asks immediately, full of concern.

"I shouldn't have said that. Nothing." Santana answers just as quickly, still staring at the ground. Brittany sighs, because Santana is still closing up, protecting herself from a bruise that has a more concrete existence inside her head than anywhere else. She wants to be there for Santana, but the other woman has to let her.

She's opening the door to her apartment when she turns to Santana with a serious expression.  "San, we agreed on honesty, remember? No more white lies." She asks, opening the door for Santana to come in. Santana doesn't answer immediately, eyes searching the living room and taking in the surroundings: the old table Brittany had bought in an antique store; the leather couch; the fish in the tank; the wall covered in pictures and posters. There are several of the two of them in different moments in life, and Santana approaches one of them in their early twenties, during a particularly cold winter, laughing and smiling under the snow. Brittany had her hair longer back then, yellow curls falling under her furry hat like a mermaid, sharing some kind of moment with Santana with shorter hair and combat boots in one of her various experimentations with style. Quinn is in the next picture over, holding the camera with her arm stretched as Brittany hugs Santana and it gives Brittany so many Unholy Trinity feelings that she has to look away.

"I miss this." Santana says finally as if answering her question, nostalgic and sad. "I miss you, I miss hanging out with Quinn." Brittany puts a hand on her shoulder, her thumb caressing Santana’s soft, tan skin. "It was easy. I was sure of so many things, including what I was and where I was heading." There's a long silence in which there's nothing but their breathing, because Brittany doesn't know why Santana is saying that and she doesn't know what to say in response. "It's not easy anymore. I'm tired of everything." Santana is looking everywhere but at Brittany: at the floor, pictures, posters, her own nails. "My marriage is falling apart." She finally says with a shaky voice.

Santana is lost; she loses herself so easily sometimes, letting the wrong things lead her life and decide what's worth it. It's huge, to witness Santana's walls breaking and her several layers falling to the ground, almost poetic in a way. Brittany pulls her close. "Thanks for telling me. I'm sorry you have to go through that." She says honestly, touched by Santana's pain, and runs a hand through Santana's hair because she would be damned if she would let their unspoken limits get in the way in a moment like that.

* * *

 

She's at a cafe, talking to Jim, giving herself some rest, wondering what she could do with her life now that their performance was over and she was back to being jobless, not having saved much money. She had been warned of how unreliable a career in dancing could be, of how young she would have to quit, of how much she needed a backup plan she refused to follow. She remembers choosing to work in an international company in her 20s because this could be it and she was terrified of becoming obsolete without having made any real statement or real achievement.

Jim and her are reminiscing about the dancers, about the thrill of putting up a small and successful show, about the time they first met and how great everything was back then. She looks at him and sees the lines on his face betraying how long it had passed since, trying to fit her new idea into words. She had come to the realization that a few of Bach's violin concertos could become a love story, and she had drafted a choreography that she wanted to show him.

He looks surprised, but interested. She takes a notebook out of her purse and starts to explain. He listens closely, eyes never leaving the paper. "This is actually a good idea. I never thought you'd be a choreographer." He says, but he's smiling. She just shrugs and sips her cappuccino, trying not to feel too flattered. He seems to think for a moment. “You know, this might just work. It’s new. It’s sincere.” The tip of his pen hits the paper several times; Brittany doesn’t dare interrupt. “We should just keep it small. No fancy scenarios, a small crew, a low budget. You and I running the whole thing. Do you think you can do this?”

Wait, had she gotten herself yet another project? Brittany could barely believe it. She hadn’t really expected to be taken seriously, let alone so enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. I have _No.1_ sketched already, and along with _No.2_ they should take 25 minutes or something. And there’s the Concerto for Two Violins, a little less than 20 minutes.”

He claps. “Perfect! Forty-five minutes is just what we need. It could be divided into two parts. We do need two people to play the violin, of course. It would be just perfect.” He holds her hand. She can see his mind is working a thousand miles per hour; it’s one of his best traits. “We should meet again next week to discuss the details.”

“We definitely should.”

* * *

  
  
The chatter of other people's conversations fills the room. The restaurant is full with modern women looking for a low-calorie lunch; it's the latest New York Times hit. Santana likes it there, with its green and fancy hippie decor. The food is all organic, locally produced, and the waitresses know the correct pronunciation to every foreign dish in the menu. They held meditation classes every Thursday at 7pm.

Santana and Samantha share a salad on their lunch break. After reaching the conclusion that red is too overused, Samantha is now a blonde with a shorter haircut. It's been months since they last saw each other, and it's good to see that even if Samantha's hair is in permanent transformation, her wit and humor haven't faded.

They are finishing their overpriced green tea when Santana finally says why she called Samantha. "Samantha, I called you because I want to ask you something."  She pauses, looking at her plate for a moment. "But it'll have to remain between you and me for now." Samantha nods and waits for Santana to continue. It's not the easiest thing to do; she never voiced this to anyone else before. Santana opens and closes her mouth a few times. "I want a divorce."

"Oh, darling." Samantha looks sincerely shocked, holding the cup in her hand midair. "Is that why you asked me all those questions a few months ago?" Santana doesn't like the worry and pity in her eyes. She hates being vulnerable, to have people feeling sorry for her. She was supposed to be a fortress, to be invincible.

"Oh, no no no." She answers, looking into Samantha's eyes. She doesn’t want to think of Brittany at that moment. "But I can't lie to myself anymore.” She feels breathless; her hands are probably shaking, but she refuses to check. She has to keep going, no matter what. There is no turning back. “I trust you. But you’re Alexander’s friend, too, and I understand if you don’t want to get involved in this.”

“Don’t worry. You have done a lot for me in the past. Let me return the favor a little.” Samantha pauses for a moment, as if she just realized something, brow furrowing discreetly. “Does Alexander know about this?”

Santana sighs. “He knows we’re not okay. We have been going to couple’s therapy for a while.” A very long while, she could add. But she doesn’t; she sips her green tea instead. The problem with therapists was trying to get to the root of things and there was much more than her husband could ever imagine. “But I know he isn’t considering divorce as an option.”

Samantha nods quietly. “Sorry if this is too personal, but… Why?”

Santana bites her lip as she searches for an answer. She can’t say too much; it would be too polemic and complicated for a quick lunch. You just don’t tell people you are a lesbian right after you tell them you’re divorcing. “I’m not happy.” She finally says. It’s perhaps the truest statement she has ever made. “I haven’t been happy in a while.” When had she let herself get to this? She wouldn’t know. She sighs again. “I need to… figure some things out.”

“You didn’t cheat on him, did you?”

She doesn’t even know what to answer to that. She wasn’t that kind of person, for the love of God. She would never do that to Alexander. “Of course not, Samantha! Who do you think I am?” _A lesbian. Lesbian. Lesbian._ “It’s just… not working anymore.” Samantha doesn’t need to know why, for the moment. Soon, Santana tells herself. Soon.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Samantha sighs and nods as the waiter takes their plates away. “This can’t be easy for you.” And that, Santana thinks, is the understatement of the year.

“I know he won’t take it well.” She tries to imagine his reaction; it’s all she has done for the past few days. How, and when, could she even tell him? During dinner? Before breakfast? During the weekend? Should she have packed already? Should she make him leave the house? Would both of them move out? “You do remember the firm has been in his family for over a century.”

Samantha’s eyes grow bigger. Smart girl. “So you’re…”

“Probably unemployed.” Santana nods and hands her credit card to the waiter for their check. She thinks to herself how funny it is that she’s more concerned about telling Alexander than about being unemployed. At least she still had a heart somewhere. “I can’t imagine Alexander II taking this news too well. And his family does have the majority of the votes.”

There’s a long silence. “Quite a change.” Samantha finally says.

“Quite a change.” Santana repeats.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s evening. Alexander is wearing a white shirt, a few buttons opened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He got home from work just a while ago. He looks at Santana, her hair down, in a black dress and a black blazer, sitting by his side on the couch.

Santana looks back at Alexander. He frowns and blinks, confused. She takes his hand. “This is not working out. We are not okay.” She pauses — the house is big and empty and even her most shallow breaths seem to echo, bouncing on every wall. “We haven’t been okay for a while now.” She feels the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, but she holds them back.

Alexander takes her hand and scoots closer. “I know.”

“We have done everything we could.” She had done everything she could to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she had succeeded for ten long years. She had been happy, at times; maybe that was the best one could hope for. “We gave us a try.”

“Santana, you’re not—” He takes a breath and she sees his eyes widening.

She bites her lip. “I think it’s time to part ways. It’s going to do us well.”

For the first time in eight years, he cries in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she says to him as she pulls him to her, for a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

 

Santana’s taxi stops in front of Brittany’s building. It’s 5am and Santana hasn’t slept all night, but she tries not to show it. She opens the door for Brittany and the driver puts the bag in the trunk. “To the airport,” she tells him.

Santana looks at Brittany’s sleepy face staring out of the window and sighs. Truth be told, Brittany is an exception in every sense. She's an exception because Santana has loved her with eyes closed, trusting someone else's judgment and putting herself in a position to be crushed -- which did eventually happen. She continues to be an exception because Santana doesn't know how not to be forgiving and thoughtful with her and because she is still all over Santana.

When the airplane leaves the ground there's a sharp anxiety. She’s leaving town without a husband; she plays with the wedding ring on her finger, worrying the skin underneath. She’s leaving to see Quinn for the first time in three years — had it really been that long? She wonders how an eight-month-pregnant Quinn looks.

Brittany's feet are touching hers, but Santana is ignoring it. Brittany's holding her hand and tracing small patterns, but she's ignoring it. She opens a magazine to pass time. Brittany reads it with her, head in the crook of her neck, and it feels peaceful. "I'm glad we came together." She says softly, and Santana hums in agreement, squeezing the other woman's hand for a brief moment.

* * *

 

Quinn has set a table outside for breakfast — she’s placing a few flowers in a small vase when they arrive. She’s beautiful, as she’s always been. Her hair is short and her yellow summer dress makes her look like she could outshine any star.

“Look at you!” Brittany screams as soon as she’s out of the car, and runs to Quinn. She hugs the shorter woman and kisses the top of her head. “You’re pregnant!”

Santana pays the taxi driver and takes their luggage to the porch before smiling at Quinn. “You look great.” She offers before she’s pulled into a three-way hug.

“I’m so glad you are both here,” Quinn says in a small voice, and Santana hugs her tighter.

“We missed you,” Brittany answers, and it’s as simple as that. Santana can feel her smile, her warmth, and she can’t find any words in that moment.

* * *

 

The cake is warm and fresh from the oven, the coffee is organic and everything tastes amazing. Quinn tells them about doctors and appointments and finding out about the baby. She tells them of her husband’s adoration, of her crazy sex hormones, and preparing a house for someone new.

Brittany tells them about her new project, and she looks so happy and excited Santana’s heart clenches. When was the last time she felt complete like that?

“What’s wrong, Santana?” Quinn asks, and Santana wishes her friend wasn’t so observant and spot on. Santana looks at her, at Brittany, and at the ring on her finger.

She takes it off. “I’m going to get divorced.” It shines in the sunlight. She drinks from her mug of coffee. “I broke up with him yesterday.” She can’t even say his name.

Quinn’s hand covers her right hand and Brittany’s hand covers her left hand. “I’m really sorry,” Quinn says, and Santana knows she understands everything. “You deserve to be happy.” She tells Santana with conviction, and Santana nods.

* * *

 

Quinn’s husband has thick glasses and curly hair; he’s soft and gentle and Santana likes him. He arrives with flowers for Quinn, Brittany and Santana, 'because he wants to make them feel welcomed'. They all blush graciously in unison, and Quinn has lilies, Brittany has gardenias and Santana has camellias.

“I’m really happy you could be here,” he says as he takes his hat off and enters the house. His smile shows the small wrinkles around his eyes. “I’m going to cook you lunch and then we can finish preparing for the baby shower.”

He’s a writer, and he just might be the best boyfriend Quinn has ever had. He’s got the same kind of brains as her, with his love of the written word and noir movies. He’s an environmental activist and he works for a magazine to make ends meet. When Quinn and him first met she had been assigned to interview him for a piece on new authors — he asked her out right after the fifth question, and she said yes.

Their first date was a book reading and Quinn told Santana the next day, “I think I just found someone special”.

* * *

 

Brittany is on a ladder, putting up the last bits of decoration; Santana is carrying a tray of food and Quinn’s arranging the napkins when someone knocks on the door. It’s early in the afternoon, too early for guests, and the three of them share a look of curiosity.

Quinn opens the door and — it’s Puck, tall, actual hair on his head, nicely shaved. “I didn’t know if I should, but I brought you something,” he says, showing the large gift in his hands.

“Please, do come in.” Quinn gestures for him to enter, and his eyes widen at the sight of Brittany and Santana.

He greets them both and sits on the couch and frets a bit, unsure. “We haven’t really spoken in a long time, but I thought—” he stops and handles Quinn the gift. “I was going to be here for a sports event, so it wouldn’t be difficult to pass by, anyway.” He breathes again.

Quinn touches his shoulder. “Thank you,” she says. Santana looks at them and how he looks at Quinn, always apologetic.

He tries to smile, but there’s an old sadness to it. “I always knew you’d be a great mamma.”

Quinn opens the gift and it’s a bathtub for babies, colorful and beautiful. She looks at it for a long time, and she looks at Puck — and they had a baby together, and they gave it up, and so much time has passed; Santana catches her breath without realizing, afraid to interrupt the moment.

“Thank you,” Quinn repeats. “You’re going to be great too, someday.”

“Someday,” he answers, running a hand through his short hair. “When I’m not too busy as a sports commentator, maybe.” He winks at Santana and she rolls her eyes, but smiles; it’s good to see he still has his groove.

Santana remembers the troubled boy she met once and the handsome man he is now and, as they make conversation, she thinks of how time goes by so quickly.

He leaves as the first guests arrive. “It was just a quick hello,” he says. “I have a meeting this afternoon,” he explains. Maybe he has, maybe he doesn’t — maybe he doesn’t want to see Quinn’s husband, who has left to run some errands.

Santana prefers not to speculate.

* * *

 

The baby shower is eclectic and fun. There are the writers, with their beards and sad eyes or short hair and long necklaces — they welcome Santana into their conversation and some of them are parents, but not all of them; they settle for discussing politics and things get heated.

Brittany watches them fondly from afar: Santana’s little frown, her assertiveness, her ability to draw attention to herself in a discussion. She’s talking to the moms, older women whose children run around in the garden and play hide and seek. They remind her of Santana’s mom in their kindness and calm, and they sympathize when Brittany tells them she’s recently divorced.

One of them gives her a cookie and tells her she has to keep her spirits up and love herself, because she knows how hard it is to end a relationship. Brittany nods and lets them talk, sneaking a few glances to Santana.

She’s gorgeous. She’s wearing black slacks, a white blouse and her hair is down and free. She has filled in all the right places and her face transformed into maturity and elegance. She’s single now, and hurting — Brittany bites her lip and tries to focus back on the conversation.

Santana looks at Brittany. Brittany looks away, caught in her staring.

* * *

 

The baby shower is almost over. Santana has left to get them drinks, and some guy takes the opportunity to hit on Brittany. He's shorter than her, and he’s balding, and his hair is too thin; he looks cocky and arrogant.

He asks her who she is and what she’s doing and how come he never saw her before; Brittany dislikes him immediately but she doesn’t know what to do, how to say it. He takes a step closer, and she takes a step back.

“And what’s a beautiful girl like you doing alone?” He asks her, and it’s hard not to roll her eyes at it.

Santana walks and interrupts the conversation. "Hi baby, got you your soda." She says, handling Brittany her drink and using her free arm to pull her close and kiss her cheek. "And you are...?" She asks the man, a fake smile and a possessive hand on Brittany's waist, her body touching Brittany’s.

"I'm Victor." He answers, looking back and forth at the two of them. Brittany looks at Santana and finally understands it: Santana’s pretending to be her girlfriend to make him go away. She smiles at Santana; her hand goes to Santana's shoulders, and it's exhilarating — for a moment it’s almost like they're a power couple again.

Santana gives him a brief nod. "Nice to meet you. I'm Santana." She offers, with no other explanation whatsoever.

Brittany kisses the spot beneath Santana ear. It's almost funny when he makes an excuse and leaves.

* * *

 

They're taking down the decorations, taking the trash out and cleaning the kitchen when Quinn breaks their comfortable silence. "I don't know if I told you both already, but thank you." She looks at both of them and she has this regal beauty and elegance and it's as hard for her to reach out to anyone as it is for Santana.

Brittany as always, has the social grace and lightness that they lack, so she reaches out and hold Quinn's hand. "Of course we would be here, silly." Brittany smiles adorably. "We had to make sure there's really a mini Quinn in there." She adds, placing her other hand in Quinn's huge belly like she would break anytime.

Santana clears her throat and speaks. "We won't be a Trinity anymore, but a Quartet. It's worth it." She says, and she hopes that will be enough for Quinn to understand all the things she tries to say but always seems to fail. "We wouldn't miss it."

"Come here." Quinn demands, reaching out to Santana. Santana comes closer and takes her hand. This is intense, and awkward, but she says nothing. "I have something to ask the both of you." She pauses and frowns a bit before continuing. "I want the both of you to be this baby's godmothers."

"Wow." Brittany says after some time. "We would love to." She adds, and Santana squeezes their hands. So many people in her life, and so many easier arrangements she could have picked, and still she chose the two of them.

“Thank you.” Santana says, and she knows then she’s bound to spoil Quinn’s kid in every way.

* * *

 

It's a bit late, and they're ready to go to bed. Santana's on the bed, answering a few emails on her iPad. She’s also avoiding to look at Brittany. "Santana..." Brittany interrupts their silence. Santana is wearing her silk nightgown and Brittany has just put her pyjamas on. Her long legs are almost teasing with the indecent length of her shorts, but Santana does nothing but to clear her throat and look at Brittany so she could continue. "Why did you do that? You know, pretend I was your..." She stops short, but Santana understands it. "So he would leave me alone?"

Santana runs a hand through her hair, trying to put her thoughts in words. How can she articulate instinct? How can she be honest with Brittany without going too far? “Because you've always been my girl, Britt.” She answers looking around the room; her voice is filled with a deep sadness and acceptance. She says nothing else, because Brittany looks at her with something that is probably pity and because she knows her voice will break if she even tries. It feels wrong and Santana feels out of place.

She is fooling herself, all this time. She still feels she is entitled to step up to Brittany, when she isn't. She still feels connected to Brittany, when they aren't. She looks at Brittany and neither of them say anything for the longest of moments. There is nothing left to say. Santana feels small and invisible. It hurts to look at Brittany's apartment and have it thrown in her face that life went on without each other. She hates that place, she hates her own place, she hates to look at Brittany and she hates not to.

Their game of pretending is wearing thin to the point of cynicism, and Santana knows it. They are not friends, they are not acquaintances. She goes to the bathroom and closes the door, in an attempt to breathe.

In any scenario she had ever built, life had never, not been profoundly marked by Brittany. In none of the predictions she might have made, Brittany's absence was a reality. Still, it happened. She remembers once more that lady in Europe who took her palm and told her she had already met the love of her life, with the saddest of eyes, as if she knew Santana had already lost her chance. She looks at herself at the mirror and the realization she has lost her chance, that they both had built a life without each other, breaks her again.

She loved Brittany first, and she also loved her last. She never meant to move on, she never meant to marry someone else and pretend everything was okay. Pretend she never dreamed of Brittany, never had the longing to hear her laughing, and never imagined herself telling Brittany some fantastic news. She never meant for it to end, but they were so young, so foolish, with ambitions that could only tear them apart. She looks at herself in the mirror and she doesn't recognize her image. She cannot take anything back. She cannot take back her life, her choices, her break up.

It came as a surprise how Brittany's could still get under her skin, how she still needed to intertwine their fingers, to hold her close, to talk to her. She expected to feel nothing but a sweet nostalgia over what they once were. She imagined she would keep her mind clear and her decisions, rational. She expected to be over her, because really, there was nothing left. Time heals, or at least it should. But it hurts stills, and Brittany's look is unbearable.

She wants to disappear, to leave that apartment and to leave her own life. Brittany knocks twice before she opens the door. They are standing close, their height difference back to normal now that Santana’s barefoot. “You don't have to say anything.” She gives Brittany that. She is now aware she took the case just to have something to hang on to as much as she is aware that is nothing holding them together anymore now that it is finished. “I better go to bed.” She tries to be a bigger person.

Brittany doesn't let her. “Santana...” it sounds like a soft request for her not to suffer with a remote past. She withholds no expectations, and isn't disappointed. She has had a lovely time with Brittany and it was more than she could ever ask.

This is too heavy. Santana sighs. “Goodnight, Brittany.” She memorizes those features once more and begins to walk, not looking back. Her eyes threaten to fill with tears. She holds them back. She reaches to the door, but Brittany's hand holds the lock before she can do anything. Before she can react, however, her face is being cupped and her lips are touching Brittany's and her body is being pressed against Brittany's.

Her lips are soft and her body feels warm in contrast to the cold door behind her that makes her arch her back to avoid the cool sensation. Her first instinct is to reciprocate, because what else would she do when kissed by Brittany if not to kiss back? She relaxes into the kiss, opening her mouth too easily when the blonde's tongue demands entrance, her own arms going to the blonde's neck. Santana moans, because she’s so gay, so very much gay, and Brittany is sucking on her tongue and biting her lower lip.

It is everything she is missing.

Brittany’s warm, and soft, and she whimpers when Santana pulls at her hair to assault her neck. She takes a sharp intake of breath when Santana places open mouth kisses and sucks, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when Santana breathes warmly just below her ear before she kisses the spot.

Santana’s hands are trembling — this can’t be happening, not at all, and maybe she fell asleep reading — so she holds on to Brittany a bit tighter. Brittany makes a strangled sound and kisses Santana again, hard and needy, and Santana parts her lips so their tongues can meet, sliding against one another. Brittany presses her body against Santana, but it’s still not enough — she needs more, she needs to be closer, she needs to _feel_ Brittany — and when Brittany grabs Santana’s thighs and lifts her, Santana sighs in relief and wraps her legs around the other woman’s waist.

Brittany breaks their kiss and looks at Santana. Her lips are already sore, and Santana licks her own lips. It struck her, finally — she’s kissing Brittany, Brittany is _kissing_ her, God — and she cups Brittany’s face.

Brittany’s eyes are pooling with tears. Santana kisses her, softly this time, and Brittany lets out a sob. “I missed you so much,” she says, voice cracking. “I missed you so much I thought I’d die.”

Santana doesn’t know what to say — there’s a knot in her throat and a weight on her chest and she can’t possibly answer. She doesn’t know what they’re doing, and Brittany’s skin tastes like salt, and she stills smells the same — maybe she changed her favorite soap, maybe her shampoo is like a forest now, but her skin; her skin is just the same, and Santana wipes her tears off.

Brittany tilts her head and searches for Santana’s lips. She makes it wet, and slow — it sinks in Santana in a way that makes her asks herself if she ever really lived before this moment, before Brittany was entangled to her, chest pounding erratically. Her own heart turns and moves and rearranges inside her ribcage, and things start to make sense again.

* * *

 

Brittany looks at the watch — it’s 8am on a glorious Sunday. Santana’s sleeping next to her and no noise can be heard around the house. It feels peaceful. Brittany can’t possibly sleep anymore. She feels excited, confused, full of promise and boundless energy. She outlines Santana’s collarbone, the valley of her breasts, and Santana stirs and wakes up.

She always loved watching Santana wake up: how she’d blink, confused, like she doesn’t know where she is; how she’d smile at Brittany and give her body a nice long stretch; how she’d finally roll to her side and tell Brittany “hello, you” and pull her closer.

She can still recall it — and some things don’t change.

“Hello back,” Brittany answers, running the tip of her fingers on Santana’s waist and watching her hold her breath. They kiss; Brittany wouldn’t know who started it. She’s sleepy and satisfied and this is how things should be — she doesn’t want to escape this inevitability.

Santana puts her head on Brittany’s chest, her nose touching Brittany’s chin. Santana sighs for a long moment before she breaks their silence. “Britt, you do know I am married.” Brittany’s heart races and she frowns. Santana kisses her jaw and continues, “I still haven’t divorced Alexander. I don’t know how that’s going to be.”

Brittany doesn’t say anything, because everything sounds stupid in her head. I love you, be with me, I don’t want to be with you, I don’t care: were those words real? What was left for them to try? Hadn’t they tried and failed already?

“Don’t look like that, please.” Santana’s voice sounds small, and she’s searching Brittany’s face. Brittany kisses her, trying to prove a point she doesn’t know which, and it’s incredibly satisfying when Santana moans in her mouth and shifts closer. “Baby—” Santana groans, opening her legs for Brittany’s hand.

“I’m not letting you go,” Brittany mumbles against Santana’s hair, fingers running through Santana’s folds, feeling the wetness. Santana’s hips buck upwards, searching; Brittany runs circles around Santana’s center. “I can wait,” she tells Santana before she slides two fingers in.

* * *

 

The plane takes off. She can’t take her hands off Brittany, and the other way around is also true. She intertwines their fingers and Brittany lifts the airplane’s armrest. All Santana can do is stare at Brittany’s lips and how they move.

She’s hyper aware of her surroundings. Brittany keeps leaning into her, and her shirt has a dangerous cleavage; she whispers things in Santana’s ear just to see the path of goosebumps crawling down Santana’s arm.

Her head is spinning — she didn’t know she could feel that sensation for so long. Brittany tells her something, speaking low into her ear, but Santana immediately forgets what she’s saying: the tip of her tongue touches Santana’s neck and draws a circle before retreating and talking to the flight attendant like nothing ever happened.

Santana considers, for a brief moment, joining the Mile High Club.

* * *

 

The taxi stops at Brittany’s first. Santana wants to see her get home safely — it’s night and who knows who could be out there — and she wants to delay her own arrival. Brittany lets her, and when the driver leaves the car to get her luggage in the trunk she takes the opportunity to kiss Santana one last time.

She tastes like candy and Santana can’t avoid sucking her lower lip for a second before letting her go.

“Call me,” she says, and she leaves.

* * *

 

Santana considers the idea of staying at a hotel. She plays with the wedding ring in her pocket and bites her lip. She doesn’t know what to expect. The taxi driver looks at her, waiting for directions. She finally tells him her address — she has to get home and face whatever she has to face.

It is a little before midnight. She takes a breath before opening the front door; there’s a light on in the kitchen and she pictures Alexander in his pyjama pants waiting for her with some tea.

She leaves her luggage and enters the kitchen.

Alexander’s not there.

“There you are,” a tall, blond woman tells her. She’s got blue eyes and her face is like a Greek statue, symmetrical and proportional and stone cold. “I was wondering if you’d ever come back.”

Santana purses her lips. “Helena,” she says as her body goes stiff and rigid and her chin discreetly raises in defiance. “What are you doing in my house? Where’s Alexander?”

She stares at Santana for a long moment. The sound of the tea kettle interrupts them; Helena pours some water in two mugs. “He is at my house hiding from everything. He fell asleep putting Agathe to bed, so I took his keys and decided to pay you a visit.” She puts the kettle aside and reaches for the tea. “I suppose you wouldn’t be against some Earl Grey, would you?”

Santana doesn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.” Helena answers and puts the tea bags in the mugs. She looks at Santana once more. “I’m here to ask what you think you are doing with my brother, because I’m not prepared to let it slide.”


	12. Chapter 12

Alexander offers his arm and Santana takes it. She takes one last look at herself in the mirror. He’s smolderingly handsome in his black suit, and she’s a vision in her long, black dress. “Be good,” he tells her as he opens the door for her.

She doesn’t answer.

They don’t talk in the car. Santana stares at the sky and he stares at the road. There is nothing to say. After some time they reach the gates and enter. A young, well shaved man takes the car keys.

It’s just them staring at the big white doors. “Please. For me,” he asks her one more time. She takes his arm and takes a deep breath; she becomes all about composure, and elegance.

They enter the house.

* * *

 

A tall, well-built man comes to them. His beard is greying and his hair is full and thick and perfectly cut. “There you are, Alexander.” He hugs Alexander, pats his shoulder, and turns to Santana. “So glad to see you,” he tells her and kisses her hand.

Helena shows up by his side in a golden dress. “So glad,” she says, looking at Santana with anger. The women kiss each other's cheeks. Helena turns to her brother and cups his face. “Aren’t you the most handsome of them all?”

“Come in, come in, everyone is here.” The man gestures for them. “Your father is happy to see the entire family together for this.”

They walk; Santana looks around and takes in the expensive arrangements, the small groups of people talking, the high ceiling and the waiters serving champagne, wine, and overly expensive scotch. They’re directly behind Helena and her husband, Eric.

“My youngest son.” Alexander’s father says. Alexander goes to him and shakes his hand. “And his beautiful wife,” he nods to Santana, taking her hand. “The family is now complete.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Nestor,” Santana answers, showing a well-practiced smile. “You gathered quite a group.”

“Your 60th wedding anniversary is worth celebrating.” He answered, placing a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “You, my children, are too young now, but you’ll understand when you get there.” He laughs, and Santana tries to smile, but she feels her muscles tensing, suppressing the idea.

Alexander’s hand on her waist is heavy and wrong.

She sees his mother walking in their direction. “Darling!” Alexander’s mother is lean and blonde and she has in her, authority and power, commanding a room. She’s not used to be ignored and she’s maybe too used to get what she wants.

She also adores Alexander and thinks he’s the greatest person to walk on Earth since Jesus.

Her smile to Santana is obviously strained – because Santana is Latina, because Santana works, because Santana earns as much as Alexander, because Santana doesn’t want to give her grandchildren just yet, because Santana married her baby boy; there were too many reasons – but she takes Santana’s hand and compliments her hair anyway.

This can’t be over soon enough.

* * *

 

“She’s so frustrating, looking at me like I stole her child and took it to the Democrats,” Santana whines into the phone, looking at her image in the bathroom mirror. “She hates me. She knows with my genetics I won’t ever give her blonde grandchildren, like Helena and Hector have done. No, my children will have black hair and – God bless – they might even have curly hair!”

She hears Brittany’s soft laugh on the other side. “You’re so bad.”

“I don’t even know what’s happening anymore. Why did I agree not to ruin this anniversary? Is it because the old witch has a cardiac condition and I’m afraid they’d accuse me of killing her? Is it because I still have no options and Alexander’s father might as well just fire me on the spot?”

“Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe,” Brittany tells her softly, and Santana closes her eyes and obeys. “I’ll be waiting for you when you manage to escape. With hot chocolate.”

Santana sighs. “That’d be nice. Are you sure it won’t be a bother - you know this might take a while –” she tries to say, but Brittany shushes her.

“Don’t be silly. Come right over.” Her tone is final, and Santana can already feel the butterflies of anticipation.

* * *

 

She’s at the main table, surrounded by his family, smothered by his hand on her thigh as he talks casually to his brothers. Santana grins when it’s appropriate and nods when it’s called for. She’s thankful Helena is a few seats away and she doesn’t have to deal with her.

She thinks of Brittany, of going _home_ to her, in a way. Her heart races imagining her opening the door, welcoming her with a kiss, if she’s lucky, and taking her by the hand.

She imagines really sleeping with Brittany – Brittany as the big spoon, pulling her close, kissing the back of her neck and mumbling good night, just like she used to do. She takes a deep breath that no one notices.

* * *

 

Nestor puts a hand on Santana’s shoulder and says he wants to have a word.

He takes her to a deserted room and serves them both a drink. Santana licks her lips, anxious. This can’t be good. Alexander is somewhere else, playing with Agathe, and hasn’t seen them. She has never been face to face with Nestor.

“I dropped by Helena yesterday,” he says. “Alexander was there, in his pajamas.” He pauses, stirring the drink in his hands and looking at Santana. “Why wasn’t he at his home, with his wife, I asked myself.”

Santana doesn’t answer. She takes a deep breath.

“I am old, but I am not blind.” His eyes are as blue as Alexander’s, she thinks as he looks straight at her. “My mind is as sharp as ever. I know very well what’s happening.” His glass clinks on the table when he harshly sets it aside. “You made your vows. Until death sets you apart like God wished to, Santana – no room for negotiation.”

Santana frowns. “Excuse me, Nestor, but my marriage is none—“

“It is not acceptable. No one in my family has ever divorced, and your marriage won’t be the first one. Especially you, Santana. You wouldn’t want to face professional problems, would you? How do you think the family would see your participation in the firm if you can’t even make your own marriage work?”

He leaves the threat hanging when a waiter enters the room and breaks the tension. “I hope we’re settled,” he says to her before he leaves.

* * *

 

Alexander drives her to the house and goes back to Helena’s house after mumbling some excuse. Santana watches his car go and wonders how crazy that family is. Five brothers and sisters, ten grandchildren, and a complex web of secrets and diplomacy Santana never tried to understand.

She takes off her heels, her dress, her makeup, and ruins her hairdo. There’s a satisfaction to it of not having to pretend. She puts on some jeans and a t-shirt – Brittany has seen her in every possible style and state of mind; it is good not having to play a part.

She goes to Brittany’s.

Brittany’s in pink pajamas and she looks absolutely adorable. Santana kisses her. It’s supposed to be light and quick, but Brittany is faster and places a hand on the back of Santana’s neck and deepens the kiss. Santana smiles and lets her, tilting her head to the left for a better fit.

This is what feels right.

“That’s a nice welcome.” Santana teases before Brittany gives her a few more light kisses and takes her bag.

“Missed you,” Brittany says, placing the bag on the bed and taking Santana by the hand to the kitchen.

Santana stands behind her as she makes them hot chocolate. She kisses Brittany’s shoulders, rests her hands on Brittany’s hips, puts her forehead on her back and inhales her scent. She feels warm, a feeling spreading through her body easily, light and settled.

“I missed you too,” she says. “I miss you all the time. I’ve missed you always.” It’s an afterthought she maybe shouldn’t have voiced, but now it’s too late.

Brittany turns to her. “Oh, Santana,” she says. Santana tries to shrug it off. “I’m here now.” Her lips find Santana’s. “I’m here.”

Santana wants to ask her _for how long_ , but she doesn’t. She takes what she can get. She kisses Brittany against the sink, fingertips sneaking under Brittany’s shirt searching for familiarity.

Brittany lets her because Brittany always lets her have her way.

Santana’s exhausted and she needs Brittany’s skin. Brittany whimpers in her mouth and pulls her closer; Santana takes them to the bedroom. They take their clothes off before they even reach the bed, and when Santana lies on top of Brittany and feels as much skin as she can, she wonders again _for how long_.

* * *

 

Sometimes Brittany thinks of whales – the lonely ones, the ones who make a different sound that no other whale in the world can hear. She thinks of how they swim for miles, powerful and alone, and how they go through their entire lives without a single interaction with another being.

Brittany knows not everyone understands her. She got better with her words as time passed, but she’s still foreign and unexpected.

Not with Santana. She sees the defeat on Santana’s shoulders, the pauses between her sentences, and she knows what Santana’s asking before Santana herself comes to realize it. She speaks Santana’s language, her muscles tensing and relaxing when Brittany maps them again, the batting of her eyelashes in anticipation, her mouth opening because she’s trying to hold everything back.

She lets Santana be on top this time. Santana needs it, and Brittany wants to be taken; she can’t ask for anything else, not yet. Santana’s afraid, and she’s breaking herself to make something new – Brittany knows it hurts. Santana touches her and Brittany gasps, rolling her hips.

Santana can read her as well – Santana still recognizes her body, her signs – and there is less loneliness. She understands Brittany’s mind, how it works and the logic it follows with an ease that growing up together can give. She touches Brittany again, but she hesitates – Brittany nods, encouraging, and Santana’s mouth take a path downwards.

Brittany goes through the motions of life at times and no one is listening.

She whimpers and moans with Santana’s mouth, holding on to her hair, staring at the dark ceiling. It doesn’t take too long for the buildup – she’s always ready for Santana, always – and when Santana slides two fingers inside of her, she clenches and tenses before she’s begging for something, anything. Santana takes her through her orgasm and she makes sure it lasts.

Santana looks right at her. Brittany knows Santana is listening.

* * *

 

Alexander rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. Sighing, he sets the table for two. The plates and glasses clink together. “You can have the house. I just want a few pictures, but you can have the rest.”

Santana opens the wine and pours them both a glass. “Let’s sell it.”

“Helena can’t know.” He serves the pasta. “You know she’s just like mom.”

She drinks her wine. “We’ll tell everyone after it’s all said and done. It’ll be easier.”

They look at each other – he’s only waiting for her to change her mind. She looks at him, but her eyes are empty and she can’t promise him anything. He clears his throat. “We also need to discuss our joint investments. And I don’t think mom will let you have the beach house. She thinks it’s family property.”

Santana sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

Santana stares at Blaine Anderson. Blaine Anderson sips his coffee and stares back at Santana. “So…” He says, looking expectantly at her. “What did you want to talk about?”

He’s still very gay and very handsome, and he looks so grown up and he still looks kind. She hasn’t seen him in person for years.

She looks at him in the eye. “I know we haven’t talked much.” She pauses. “I know we never talked much.” She pauses again. “But I keep tabs on everyone from Glee club, to check how they’re doing, where they’re living, and what kind of life they are leading.”

He nods, encouraging her to continue.

“You’re a lawyer, one of the biggest names in the fight for gay rights. You’re with Kurt, still, and you both modeled for a national awareness campaign against hate. Kurt still has lady lips.” She says, and she makes Blaine laugh. She decides to count that as a small victory. “I’m going through a divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He looks sincere. “Do you need legal assistance? I know same sex couples can have a hard time with some judges and lawyers. Does Brittan—“

She shakes her head. “I’m not married to her. We broke up over a decade ago, actually,” she interrupts him. He looks at her in confusion. She continues, “I’m married to a man.”

“I thought you were—“

“I am.” She sighs. “Sometimes the closet is a necessity.” She looks at him and she hopes he understands. “But I can’t. I can’t anymore.” She knows how pitiful she must be to him – he’s accomplished, doing what he believes in, sharing his life with someone he loves… She’s just another cliché.

“That’s really brave of you.” He puts his drink aside and leans towards her. “I hope you know that.”

“It’s not,” she answers. A heavy silence falls. She sighs again. “But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” He looks at her. “I’ve been asking— to know what’s out there, look for new things—I heard you might have a job opening coming soon.” She looks at him. “I wanted to do the right thing, for once. I wanted to ask you to consider me.”

He analyses her, in silence. She decides to continue.

“I know it’s not my area – but I want to start new. I don’t care that it’s a junior position, and I’m not picky about the salary.” Words start flowing more easily, and she gains confidence. “You know I’m determined, ambitious and can be absolutely ruthless in court. I graduated first in my class and in my firm I went from junior associate to senior partner in record time. I have an impressive win-lose ratio. And you know I like to win.”

Blaine smiles – he looks younger when he does it. “We should talk.”

* * *

 

 “Don’t look at me like that. Do you want to tell my mother anything right before her birthday barbecue? Do you?” Alexander looks at her and searches for his keys around the house. He’s wearing a white polo shirt and navy blue jeans and she’s wearing a yellow sundress.

She hates sundresses.

She shows him his keys on the hallway table, and he thanks her. He opens the door for her and she enters the car. He follows.

“I talked to our investment manager. He says it should be easy to sell some 70% and we should have the money in our respective bank accounts this month,” she says. She looks at her makeup in the mirror. “The rest of it, however, are long term investments we can’t have access to yet.”

“It’s okay,” Alexander answers abruptly.

She knows he just wants it to be over. She feels like apologizing, again, for everything she has done, but there’s nothing left to say.

The rest of the ride is completely silent.

* * *

 

“So, what do you think?” Santana asks Brittany. They’re at Central Park again, with a basket full of food and nothing scheduled for the day. They’re on a red and white picnic towel and Brittany is sitting between Santana’s legs, her right side turned towards Santana. Santana likes having Brittany this close, to envelop her arms around her and breathe in her perfume.

“I’m surprised.” Brittany touches her face. “The good kind of surprised.”

Santana smiles and steals a kiss. Brittany grabs her by the collar and pulls her back in. She likes how Brittany always takes her time, how she savors the moment. The way she licks her lower lip when they break apart.

“He’s going to love you,” Brittany says, placing a stray of Santana’s hair behind her ear. “You’re going to do great things.”

She makes Santana feel hopeful. “Let’s see. Blaine still hasn’t called me back, and there are other candidates for the position.”

“But you’re the best one. He’s smart enough to see it.” She kisses Santana’s hands and she makes Santana blush with the look on her face.

Santana kisses her again, because she can’t help it. She’s gone too long without this freedom, without the possibility of Brittany, and she’s thirsty for it. Brittany sucks Santana’s lower lip gently, her hand on Santana’s collarbone; Santana relaxes and lets her do anything she wants.

Santana feels the breeze around them, the smell of grass. Brittany runs her tongue over Santana’s lips, and Santana parts them without resistance. Brittany’s tongue explores her mouth, rubs against Santana’s tongue lazily, taking her time. Santana’s heart feels like it’s under water – it’s slow, echoes vibrating through her body, floating inside her – and she doesn’t want anything else for her life other than this moment.

Brittany breaks the kiss – licks her lower lip – and looks at Santana. There is no pain, no weight. “Maybe I could sleep at your place again,” she asks, her face inches apart from Brittany’s.

She wants Brittany’s body to find her during sleep, as it always does – Brittany’s always reaching for her, enveloping her – so there will be no emptiness, no deserted bed waiting for her when she wakes up.

“You should,” Brittany answers. Santana asks herself if Brittany’s hand, right over her heart, can feel what’s happening inside her. Maybe she can. Maybe that’s why Brittany looks at her like this, like she understands all of it – like she welcomes it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a wild ride for me. It's been more than three years, and my life has changed so many times, so profoundly, I'm still taken aback by it.
> 
> I wrote this for one person, but I offered it to the world.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this story. It means a lot to me.
> 
> I hope you had fun. I hope you have hope.

The clock rings eight.

Brittany soothes Santana's back a few times just for the pleasure of it. The bed whines when she tries to move as silently as possible, and she cringes.

She closes the bedroom door slowly, quietly, and goes to the kitchen. The smell of coffee is wonderful and cozy. She takes out her phone and dials a number.

"Anderson." His voice is coarse with sleep. She can hear him mumble a "go back to sleep" to someone else.

Her throat feels itchy. "Hey, Blaine. It's Brittany."

A long yawn. "How are you, Britt? What can I do for you?"

"I'm okay. I just needed to tell you something." She takes out a few fruits and starts cutting. "Sorry I woke you up, I thought you-"

He interrupts. "It's no big deal."

Had five minutes already passed? "You have a big decision to make." She bites her inner cheek. "It's not my problem, and I shouldn't be calling you, but I needed to ask you to please, please give her a chance."

He sighs.

"She's good at it. She's good in court, and she's smart, and she's going to give you everything she has because she needs to, you know?" She puts her knife down. "She can do it."

"I know she can."

She hesitates for a moment. "You would do her good, too."

"I'll think about it, Britt."

She hates talking on the phone – how can she know what he's really trying to say?

She feels a little nauseous. "I'm sorry I called."

"You're always welcome," he says, soft as a feather, before hanging up.

The coffee brewer beeps.

* * *

Santana wakes up exhausted.

She has dreamed about Alexander again - the sad look in his eyes, his early defeat when they were still trying, when she was still trying.

Her body aches, and Brittany's side of the bed is already cold. Had she already left for work?

She rubs her face, trying to wake up properly.

Her favorite brand of coffee fills the air, and she hums.

* * *

Blaine brings Kurt his favorite bagels, even if Kurt says they're too many calories for a single breakfast.

Kurt smiles when he leaves the room and sees the table set, his favorite mug being filled with coffee and a soft folk song on the stereo.

"Have you made up your mind?" He asks, his hair sticking out in every direction.

"Yes." Blaine kisses him. "For better or worse."

Kurt knows better not to press any further.

* * *

She can never stop kissing Brittany once she starts.

Brittany tastes like coffee and smells like soap, and she makes all kinds of small sounds, scratching Santana's neck and nibbling her lower lip.

She presses Brittany against the table a little harder, the palm of her hands hot against Brittany's back.

"You should go," Brittany whispers against her lips. "It's going to be a big day."

"I know," she answers, not really stepping back.

* * *

The silver lighter shines as she rolls it between her fingers.

Santana takes a cigar, cuts it swiftly, the dry material scratching against her fingertips.

She rolls it between her fingers as she lights it, slow and sure, her briefcase by her side.

A mother with a small baby strolls around, talking to the baby.

She could have started a family if she wanted to.

She rests one arm on the bench and looks at her watch. Twenty minutes to go.

She stares at the sky, takes another drag, and tries to gather enough courage.

She used to have everything.

* * *

The office is buzzing with people, as usual.

The lawyers greet her, unaware.

She makes small talk here and there, dancing around Nestor's office for a while.

He goes there once a month to mentor the younger associates and to review a case or two; the meaning of retirement is still elusive to him. She closes the door behind her, taking in his expensive navy blue suit and well-manicured nails.

Alexander looks at her full of expectation; she looks at him and hopes she doesn't look too vulnerable.

Nestor could smell fear, and her palms are sweating.

She sets her resignation letter on the table, right by his usual mug of black coffee. "It's time," she says, simply.

He looks at her dumbly before putting his glasses on and looking at the document.

She takes off her wedding ring and places it in front of him. He frowns at her and immediately turns to his son, as usual. "Alexander, are you aware-"

"Yes, father." He says, giving her a look of encouragement. "I am."

"It's just inevitable," she starts, a tremble in her voice. "We have split our joint investments and the divorce is on its way," she says mechanically. Don't think about it too much, she tells herself. Don't think about the consequences.

Nestor stands up, clenching the letter in his hand. "That's unacceptable."

"It's done."

"I expected more from you both," he says, full of snark. "You just don't give up on the first crisis."

She looks at him dead in the eye. "You don't know that. You don't know us. You don't know me, and this is not the 1950s."

Alexander places a hand on her shoulder. How long had he been standing there beside her? "Father, don't make a scandal," he says. "There's nothing you can do."

The vein on Nestor's neck seems about to break. It's absolutely satisfying.

She takes a deep breath. "I recognize I don't have a place here anymore. It will be better for everyone if I move on to other projects."

Alexander caresses the back of her shoulder with his thumb, soothing. "We'll make sure her transition is smooth and we'll find another great lawyer to take her place. We've been wanting to make Emma partner for a while, and this might be a great opportunity."

Nestor gives them a look of understanding. This had been very rehearsed, thought out from beginning to end.

"I'm sure you and Alexander will think of a way to break the news to your family."

Nestor changes tactics. "Take a week. Think it out," he says, tired. "Then we'll talk."

"No," she says, firm for the first time. "No concessions this time."

She kisses Alexander's cheek and, with a nod, leaves.

She wonders why she ever feared Nestor.

* * *

The street lamp blinks in the dark.

She's so tired she can barely open the door to Brittany's studio; she fumbles with the key for several moments before she finally manages to open it.

She considers for a moment to ask Brittany to cancel their dinner plans in exchange for sleeping and cuddling and mainly sleeping, but that illusion is soon shattered when she realizes Brittany's advanced students are still there.

She'll have to wait even longer, until everyone has left and they can close the place. She curses under her breath and takes a few steps further, settling her briefcase on the ground.

But then something happens.

The older student, a tall 50-year-old man, looks into her eyes intensely, and his entire body stiffens.

The younger one, a lean teenager with blue hair, approaches him, and when she touches him she freezes in place.

One by one, the students touch each other and freeze, with no explanation whatsoever.

Santana frowns. Is this an elaborate rehearsal?

She hears, then, a button being pressed, and a remix of Where Do I Begin by Shirley Bassey starts to play.

She actually loves that song.

Brittany shows up at the back, her silhouette against the light, and she moves to the beat, touching each dancer; they fall on the ground immediately.

The music picks up when they rise, full of grace and movement, and Brittany touches the first student. He turns to her and they settle in position. She looks at Santana, impassible, before she's being taken away through the crowd, swirled around.

Another student, a black woman with full red lips, touches the older man's right shoulder; he disconnects from Brittany and turns to someone else. Brittany enters some kind of duel with the woman, until a young man whisks her away.

She dances with every single student, and Santana realizes she's going around the room as she switches partners. Everyone else performs their own solo in the meantime.

She finally gets to Santana.

Santana's eyes widen a little in panic, heart racing.

"Dance with me." Brittany offers her hand. Santana takes a deep breath and accepts it, because Brittany can lead.

Brittany looks at her so tender it's like she's begging to be kissed in front of her students. They get in position. Santana smiles, letting herself be taken around the room, watched by the students.

Brittany goes slow, coming to a stop as the last notes fill the room.

Only then does Santana notice there's a small table. The younger student is sitting on it, smirking. She's got long black nails, Santana notices when the girl opens her hand.

There's a small box, blue velvet.

Brittany takes it. Santana's eyes widen.

"Marry me," she says, standing before Santana, as equals for once. "Not right now, not this year, not next year. But marry me, someday."

The music dies, and there's only silence.

Brittany opens the box.


End file.
